It all started with Joy.

Chapter 1: It's not all fun and games.

As a midwife, witnessing a new life coming into this world is, probably, the most normal and natural thing of all. Birth is fascinating; there is nothing predictable about it, and anything can happen. As someone who wants to keep everything under control -who needs to, actually-, sitting in a birthing room is my worst nightmare; buzzers, lights, medications and weird instruments make my head spin. That was the reason behind switching to a community midwife role as soon as I finished my preceptorship; I haven't hated anything more in my life and, for a year, I woke up sweating and panting, my anxiety through the roof. The idea of being in charge of two lives made me want to puke, and I almost barfed more than the ladies I assisted through labour did. I put on a great façade every day; I looked confident, with an I-know-what-I-am-doing mask on, but I really didn't. Oh, well, maybe I did -I did- but the imposter syndrome I have been battling since I can remember, and the absolute zero confidence in my ability made me wonder whether people were safe with me in charge. To be fair, touch wood, I haven't had any major issues, not with mum nor with babies so I must be doing something right. Nevertheless, even if my death count stayed at zero, I would never come back to work on a labour ward; I fell in love with community, and I know that it's where I am supposed to be. Being a community midwife means I get to see the same families through their pregnancy; I am there the first time they walk through the intimidating double doors, barely pregnant and just basking in the love they have created. I am there when they hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time, which has led to many shed tears through the years. I am there when their belly rounds and pops out, solidifying the reality that there is really a baby in there. I am there if everything progresses uneventfully, and I am there if anything creeps up, providing the support they need. I am there when they get close to their due date; impatient, tired, completely done asking me to just reach up there and pull the kid out. Just joking... most of the time. Finally, I am there when they go back home for the first time as a complete -for now- family; I am lucky enough to get to see the end result, and nothing can compare.

But why am I walking down a labour ward corridor at 11pm, then?

That is a really good question.

The answer is Amelia. She was my best friend growing up, and she still is even though we are quite grown; she celebrated her 28th birthday not long ago, while mine is coming up in two months. Mills always gets excited about birthdays, but I can't really see what the fuss is all about. We get a year older, and a year closer to the grave. Having been brought up by a single mother, a widower, meant that money was never enough, and we didn't get spare to splurge on ourselves; everything my mother could put aside went into our savings, to move out of the rough area we had landed. However, she would always treat me to a nice fast-food dinner, but I didn't want her to feel bad about our lack of fundings, or worse, to feel bad about herself that I always protested and claimed that birthdays were weird, and I hated them; funnily enough, now I kind of work with birthdays. That's karma for you, my friends. I guess. Maybe I loved them as a young child, before my dad got killed at 27 years old by a drunk driver, leaving a young wife and two kids, but I cannot really remember anything from when my father was alive, so who knows. I wrap my arms around my tiny body, rubbing my hands on my bare skin trying to generate some heat; it is May, but in London that doesn't mean anything, and temperatures are still on the lower side while the wind blows through the century-old windows with broken seals. For infection control, I can't wear a jumper while working, and that scores another point for community. Keeping my head low, I walk decisively through the second set of double doors and into the birthing centre; this area is different from the labour ward because it is more of a low-risk, high-screaming setting due to the lack of strong pain medications. But honestly, any woman that births, whether with or without meds, natural, caesarean, or home birth, they are my heroes. They take on the most painful job in the world and make it look effortless, even if they don't believe they do most of the times. Women are the strongest, and I will fight anybody who says otherwise, sorry. Lost in my train of thoughts, I trip on the long legs of the pale blue scrubs I am wearing, and I curse under my breath, hoping that none of the patients can hear me. When I arrived, all the scrubs my size were gone, and I had to make do with what I found; however, these garments are buggy, and they hang so low they threaten to show my boobs or my ass if I make one wrong move. Lifting the trousers up more, and rolling the waistband, I knock on the first door on the right.