Public or Private?
ShockedandScared!!
Hi ladies, just found out I’m up the duff! Shocked and scared just about covers it! Wasn’t planning this at all. Still wondering now what to do, do you all go private on your first babies? My big sis was private and it cost her a fortune but she said it’s the only way to go. Then my cousin said it’s a complete waste of money and that you mightn’t even get a private room. Seriously confused. Any help would be great!!
TAKETHATFAN
WENT PUBLIC ON ALL OF MINE ANYTHING ELSE IS A COMPLETE WASTE OF MONEY. YOU GET TO SEE THE SAME PEOPLE IT’S JUST A NICER WAITING ROOM.
LimerickLass
Have to STRONGLY disagree TTF. I went private and it was wonderful. My consultant was such a lovely man … such a nice bedside manner. I didn’t really ask any questions, just trusted him totally. He was there when they brought me in to be induced and he did the surgery himself when things got hairy and I had to have a section. He was with me every step of the way and then bollocked the nurses till I got a private room! Lovely man.
RedWineMine
Ehm, doesn’t sound that lovely! Bollocking nurses? For something you’re paying four grand for anyway? It’s a tough decision. Private is very dear but the public system is quite busy at the moment. How is your health? It can depend on whether it’s a complicated pregnancy.
SofaBound
I’m public and quite happy with it. Had a bit of a scare earlier this week and I was taken in straight away and looked after. No complaints.
ShockedandScared
Thanks SofaBound! Hope you’re not SofaBound for long! Can I ask which hospital you are in?
No, you cannot. Claire put the iPhone down on her stomach. ‘What’s that, love?’
Matt stuck his head through the double doors, the smell of fresh pasta sauce wafting in after him.
‘Nothing!’
Claire gave a cheery smile. In fairness, he deserved it. He’d come home as promised at four, laden down with Tesco bags and was now cooking dinner, pausing only to tell her not to move a muscle. God bless him, he was trying his best. And when he’d asked her how she’d spent her day she hadn’t lied, exactly. Waved vaguely in the direction of the remote control and mentioned something about a nap. It was all true. She HAD drifted off during Murder She Wrote. She had only turned it on, however, after a twenty-five-minute Murder He Explained conversation with Flynn which had brought her up to speed with his trip to Ireland 24. There didn’t seem to have been much in it. But at least she felt she was still involved.
And after hanging up on Flynn, she’d found her finger wandering, once again to the Netmammy app. She felt like she was getting to know some of the women now. Crazy, really. But, earlier that evening, when she’d heaved herself up off the sofa – again – to go to the toilet, she found herself thinking of something witty one of them had said about all night widdling. And had laughed to herself in the downstairs loo. Luckily Matt hadn’t been around. He’d have thought she was insane for sure. But it was mad, how you got to know them. Or thought you did.
Some of them though were awfully naïve. She turned back to the conversation she’d been following. Sure enough three others had responded with the names of the hospitals they’d attended, times and dates and in one case the name of a midwife who’d particularly impressed her. Seriously? These women were making themselves totally identifiable.
‘I’ll be another while … might make fruit salad for dessert.’
The chef peered through the double doors that separated the kitchen from the living room and Claire fluttered her fingers without looking up.
‘Grand, grand.’
He’d left sandwiches for her lunch and a packet of chocolate biscuits by her side that morning, so she wasn’t in imminent danger of expiration if she didn’t get fed straight away.
They were foolish women.
To prove her point, she went back into the site and clicked on one site member’s name at random. Morethanahairdo had over five hundred posts. Definitely a SAHM, Claire surmised and then marvelled at the speed with which she’d picked up the lingo. She dipped into a few of them. Dropping bottles? Not much there. Dodi disaster? No. And then a third. ‘Anyone know where to get probiotics in Tallaght? I live near the Square.’
Her fingers stabbing, Claire read through another post, and another. Within five minutes, she had picked up the infor mation that Morethanahairdo lived in Tallaght, had a seven-month-old daughter and had worked as a teacher but was considering not going back after maternity leave. Her husband, she’d said in answer to a post about the economy, worked as a civil servant and had taken several pay cuts, but was happy to be still employed. Claire kept clicking. They had been to Majorca last year on holiday. Were considering going back with baby in tow. They had built an extension on to their house and were worried about the repayments. And then – bingo! Her surname started with an O. Morethanahairdo had posted this months ago, way back in the early days of pregnancy when she was trying to decide on names. She was wondering if she could pick a name ending with a vowel, given that their name started with an O. Rebecca O’? Hugo O’? Claire said a couple of names out loud and then shook her head. Couldn’t see the problem herself. But it was another clue.
Fingers flying now, Claire did a quick Google search. Planning decisions for the south Dublin co. council region. She had them in less than a minute. T. O’Reilly, F. O’Brien and R. O’Dowd had all applied for planning permission in or around the relevant time. She typed the first name into Google, added Tallaght to the search query. Nothing, just a link back to the planning permission page. And then the second. O’Brien, Tallaght. Added ‘teacher’. And struck gold. A photo from a local newspaper showed a young woman, pregnancy bump clearly showing, standing beside her class of first communion students. Sarah Cullen O’Brien, the caption read before naming a Tallaght school. It was almost certainly Morethanahairdo. And five minutes work had given Claire her name, her husband’s name, home address and place of work. These women thought they were anonymous? They weren’t, not at all.
But the whole bloody thing was addictive. Claire shifted on the sofa and went back to the Netmammy home page. MammyNo1 was back. It was impossible to ignore her posts now, like a constantly updated soap opera. All of the other Netmammies felt the same, judging from the number of views the post had stacked up.
MammyNo1
I just want to say thank you to you all for the lovely posts and PMs. Really means a lot that you are thinking of me. Well, me and the kids have moved out of the house. We are living with my mother now. It’s not ideal, we’re all sharing a bedroom and driving each other mad. But you were right, we couldn’t live like that any more.
Ouch. Claire paused, wondered how best to phrase it and then tapped a quick reply.
SofaBound
Hi MammyNo1. Do you have legal advice by any chance? It’s just it’s not really recommended that women leave the family home … you and the kids have the right to be there, DH should really be the one to go.
She paused for a moment and then pressed send. She knew this because she was a guard, no need to let the poster know that though. It was just a bit of friendly advice.
MammyNo1
Thanks SB. But staying wasn’t an option for me.
Claire sighed. She’d heard that one before. Had dealt with enough domestic violence cases in her career – and they weren’t all in working-class Dublin either. She’d had one nasty case in Donegal where the woman had turned up at the Garda station at midnight, three terrified kids in the back of the car. He’d been a prosperous farmer; she was still living in a B & B as far as Claire knew. Life could be pretty shitty sometimes.
She refreshed the page again. Still more posts on MammyNo1’s thread. In fairness to the Netmammies, they were like a swarm of bees when they decided to bestow sympathy. But Claire couldn’t help wondering if some of them were taking vicarious pleasure in the story, patting MammyNo1 on the head while secretly thanking their lucky stars that they weren’t in the same situation. It made their own lives seem better by comparison.
Then again, maybe that was what she was doing too.
She refreshed again. A new post was now at the top of the page. Someone called FarmersWife had started a thread called ‘Sad News’. Well, that sounded like it was worth reading. She raised her head. Listened to the clanging sounds emanating from the kitchen. She had at least ten minutes.
FarmersWife
Hello there. I hope it’s okay, me posting like this. Feels very strange. But Martha … that’s my wife … felt she knew you all. She used to talk about you all the time. We’d be talking about one of the kids and she’d turn around and say, oh one of the women on Netmammy said swaddling is great for that or whatever. I used to slag her about it and call you her imaginary friends. But you were her friends and I think you need to know this.
Martha died last week. She took her own life. I’ve never written that down before. They found her body in her car, in a little wood just a few miles from our house. It’s a beautiful area. Maybe that’s why she chose it. And deserted. The kids were with my Mam.
I’m not even sure why I’m posting this. But the funeral is over now and all her friends have gone home. But ye were her friends too and I wanted to let ye know. She left her laptop open every night signed on to this page. That’s why I’m posting under her name. We didn’t keep secrets from each other. Or at least I didn’t think we did.
I have no idea why she did it. We have three sons, well I suppose you know that. And she adored them and they adored her. She was the best Mammy in the world. And the best wife. And now she’s gone. We had our problems I suppose. But who doesn’t? And I really thought we were coming through them. Maybe I’m a fool.
I’m crying now writing this. I’m not even sure if I’ll send it. But maybe it’ll help writing it down. I just don’t know why she did it. We were tired and stressed and grumpy at times, but it all seemed normal to me.
Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to have to tell you all this. I know what you girls mean to each other. And I know, or at least I think I did, how important this site was to Martha. But she must have needed something that none of us could give her. And now she’s gone. If anyone out there can help us … tell us maybe how she was feeling … I’m not sure what to do any more
Farmer.
Claire reread the last line in disbelief. Suicide.
She put the phone back down on the coffee table, suddenly exhausted. Those poor kids. She knew she should be thinking of them, and that poor eejit of a husband. But she could only think of herself, right now, right here. Still broken, in some deep irreparable place.
Selfish cow.
It was always her first reaction, every time she heard the word or came across the act. She couldn’t avoid it, in her job. Managed to keep her game face on, keep her brain in neutral every time she saw a body being pulled from a river or lifted, broken and lifeless from under a train. But the thought was always there.
Aidan had been a selfish bastard.
Aidan, who had driven her home in his father’s car, kissed her good night and then returned to his house and swallowed a box of his mother’s sleeping tablets, washed down with whiskey. Aidan, who had killed himself two days before the start of the Leaving Cert. the exam that was supposed to help them escape to college and adulthood and any other bloody place but here. Aidan, with his eighteen-hole Doc Martins and bootleg cassettes and brains that would have seen him pass every exam going, had left a note for his parents and nothing for Claire. Aidan had been a selfish bastard.
She had adored him, treasured every second she spent curled up beside him on her narrow single bed, smoking Carroll’s out the window and slagging off the dumb boring inhabitants of their small, dull town. It had been the two of them together, against the world. Until the day it was only her, and the world against her.
Selfish bastard.
She only once said the words out loud, one night in the vacuum between exams and results when she’d hitched a lift into Galway city and come back at 3 a.m., stinking of cigarettes and cider. She had lost her front door key and her mother got out of bed to let her in. She had made her tea in the chilly kitchen while she talked about him drunkenly, and cried.
Her mother, terrified into silence by the school’s grim warnings of copycat actions, had simply nodded nervously and agreed. Selfish bastard. Claire said it one more time, and then was sick all over the floor. She woke up fully dressed in her own bed the next morning and she and her parents never spoke about Aidan again. To be honest, they never really spoke about anything meaningful ever again.
She blamed everyone for his death. His teachers, for not appreciating him. His parents, for treating him like a child. Her own parents. For what, she didn’t really know. But she was angry with them, in some vague unfocused way, for their reaction to his death, their attempts to persuade her she’d be okay. On the night of the removal her father had even mentioned that there’d be more fish in the sea. She looked at him, his big calloused country hands twisting, his face grey with concern, and felt only derision. She moved out of the house six months later and, other than for the occasional fraught visit had never returned.
Two decades later, Matt told her that her antagonism towards them had become a habit. She supposed he was right, but didn’t have the impetus to change it. Aidan’s death had become part of her, a hard knot of anger at her core. It had also decided her future. A local guard, a thirty-five-year-old mother of two sons, had broken the news of Aidan’s death to his classmates and realised immediately from the looks and whispers that the tall, pale girl in the second last row had been more than just a friend. Garda Mulhaire had kept a close eye on Claire over the following weeks. She never patronised, and her gentle questions and assurances had convinced Claire that someone was on her side. When Claire realised a career in the force would also allow her to leave home almost immediately, the decision to join up had been an easy one to make.
She rarely visited her hometown now. But Aidan was still with her. And every time she heard someone had committed what to her was the ultimate act of cowardice, it had become second nature to look for answers and assign blame.
Jesus, Claire, lighten up. She rubbed her eyes and, almost without thinking clicked back into Netmammy. The Farmer already had four responses, each one dripping with ‘sad’ icons and offering sympathy, hugs and prayers. MammyNo1 said there were tears on her keyboard.
‘Pasta for madam!’
Her husband placed a steaming plate of food in front of her and gave a mock bow.
‘Sorry it took so long.’
‘No problem.’
Claire forced a smile. Dinner first, and then she had a few phone calls to make.