When a butterfly flutters in Wuhan..........

So my blog begins 2 weeks ago. Been a bit busy - let's crack on.

These are the BAD THINGS that have happened in that time.

1. The Virus arrived -probably by plane.

People went skiing and came home perfectly well. But their friends, family and contacts became ill; some very ill indeed. The authorities tried to track the virus but it outwitted them. It was fast and wily. It went undercover. It evaded detection and stuck its tongue out when our backs were turned.

We made leaflets and posters. Three hundred in one hour, on our office printer.

DO NOT COME IN IF YOU HAVE BEEN TO THESE PLACES...BLAH BLAH BLAH...

RING 111. STAY HOME. ISOLATE. BUILD A DEN. DON'T COME OUT.

We were proud of our speedy response to the unfolding drama - smug even.

A lovely mild mannered doctor walks up to our clinic from Care of the Elderly. We NEVER have visitors. He shakes my hand. The last time I shake anyone's hand.

'I just got this email. Your posters are out of date'

'Out of date? We just printed them. That guidance can't be more than a day old.'

'It doesn't matter now. It doesn't make any difference where you've come from. You could have holidayed at the Hilton Wuhan. The advice would be the same as if you'd never left Cleethorpes.

Because it's here.

2. My colleagues stayed home.

No, don't misunderstand. Midwives aren't flaky. Sure, in every trade and profession there are those who go sick because their aunt's dog had a cold last Thursday and they stroked it. We all know who they are. But this was different - they had to stay home. The bit of the poster which was left after we'd got the student to cut off the top part now issued very simple instructions. STAY HOME IF YOU DEVELOP A DRY COUGH OR FEVER. The good news is - that's only for seven days. The bad news? Fourteen days if you're fine but a family member isn't. Oh, and if you're pregnant, or high-risk, or old (yes we have great midwives working into their seventies) then stay home too.

The first of a million whatsapps.

My mate Maddie has messaged me. Seven times in three minutes. I'm in the bath but my notifications are pinging. I should've turned them off I think. This is the last time I think this. My throat tightens but I try to relax. I top up the bath oil but it doesn't have the usual effect. I give up, get out and check my messages. Maddie's team of eight is down to one. Maddie. There's a busy clinic running tomorrow; lots of new bookings (excited newly pregnant ladies waving positive test sticks and requiring appointments). There are also students to support. Then there is the mounting COVID related management admin which is being generated by twice daily Cobra announcements from Downing street, directives from Public Health England and the senior management team in our trust, who, it seems to me must be 'living in'. Maddie has been in post for just two weeks.

I dress and head for Waitrose, with the joint credit card we only use for food shops and Christmas. I buy two bags of luxury lunch items. Spanish tapas, smoked salmon and artisan oat cakes rarely feature in midwives' lunches. Next day I lay it all out by the printer next to the hobnobs.

Something deep and intangible, in a quiet but knowing recess of my brain, had told me to do this. But I had no idea why. Generally staff bring in lunch or money for a bacon sarnie. But no sooner was the last of the three types of humus unlidded than an consultant obstetrician, three junior doctors, six midwives, all the students, two managers and a health care assistant formed an orderly queue. The afternoon was characterised by one phrase, and one alone.

'I AM NOT DOUBLE DIPPING'.

Same again next day. No-one had brought in lunch. No-one had time to eat properly. No-one could manage a whole meal in any case. Too wired. We all agreed that was the word.

Snack, wash hands, see patients, wash hands, snack, wash hands, see patients, wash hands.

And so the days went. The students step up, they 'get it' immediately. They see the anxiety on patient's faces. They respond to our urgent need to multi-task. They work with initiative and like us, they stay late. But then, we return from an update meeting, to a note. 'We've been pulled - so sorry, thank you so much for having us. Our placements have ended. We will miss you.'

And just like that, the curtain comes down on first and second year midwifery training, for now.

But we won't forget how proud you made us, girls.

I come home and confess to Andy that he bought all the buffet food. He's tetchy but doesn't protest. He hasn't caught up yet. Why would he? It will become clear soon enough.

3. I now have three jobs.

Don't get me wrong, I love them all. But I am required to get myself PDQ to as many 'upskilling' sessions as possible. The gaping hole in the midwife numbers has become a yawning cavern. We must all be ready to work anywhere, anytime, from community clinic to operating theatre, to labour ward, to triage bay. We must appear calm, confident, unfazed and unflappable. We can't look stunned. We are given a rubber arm on which to practice our cannulation skills. We use big cannulas in maternity. The biggest. My colleagues have not cannulated in years. They are experts in maternal mental health, antenatal and postnatal care and community midwifery.

Despite the public perception, based upon 'one born every minute', delivering babies is a tiny part of the job, a snapshot in a pregnancy. Obviously its the glory moment. Sometimes it's the gory moment. But when you don't need drama or glory in your life anymore, there is a whole load of other work that will take you on a learning curve, to be an expert midwife in a different place.

But no longer.

We are Everymidwife now.

There is no comfort zone in the time of COVID-19.

4. I miss the clapping.

There is something on my newsfeed attempting to rally support for a 'clap for the NHS'. It is sweet but I am sceptical. Very Latin, but not very British, I think.

My drive to work is a dream. It is all a dream really. COVID dreams... we all have them. But this is a nice dream. Sunny and free. I park easily. Staff charges have been suspended.

I am working with a great team. Our Trust is not rated Outstanding for nothing. I draw up IV's, site my cannula, catheterize with asceptic technique, fix a fetal scalp electrode effectively, muddle my way through piles of unfamiliar documentation, negotiate the IT systems and make the tea. Oh, and all the time I am caring for Mr and Mrs Lovely, of Lovelytown, Lovelyland. It is not too bad, I think. I've got this. Just. With a little help from my beautiful colleagues.

I am grabbing a handful of Wotsits for lunch when my Whatsapp pings to remind me of the 'Clap for the NHS'.

'I will be driving home' I think. I wonder if I will see anyone.

And then my texts ping. One after another after another. Friends of friends, of friends.

'So sorry can you help? We hope you don't mind, your friend so-and-so said you wouldn't. We don't know where to turn'.

And there it was. Expectant mummies across the land had just been told (in this case by a colleague on the phone in an office down the corridor) that from now on there were no visitors, no partners at appointments or scans, women only on the antenatal wards, one birth partner only for labour, no partner to stay overnight and the homebirth service suspended until further notice.

I already know that our women will be having many of their midwife consultations by phone in the coming weeks. And after the birth we won't be visiting at home.This was unimaginable two weeks ago. I had found it really hard to process and comprehend. Now the reality of this crisis was being revealed to our patients.

All I could do was to reply in gentle but honest terms. There would be sacrifices in the fight against COVID-19. The Royal College of Obs and Gods had made the best plans they could for an immediate reorganisation of antenatal care, balancing midwifery contact with protection from exposure to this disease, this enemy. There is only way to mentally and emotionally move forward. Acceptance. A rapid assimilation of a new normality. Isn't that what we are all doing?

I get snapped at in theatre. The day does not end well. They had moved all the equipment out and I can't find a thing. I feel like I'm in that dream where you go to school in your vest and knickers. Or the one where you are sitting an O'level you forgot to revise for. I am beyond the outer ring of the zone outside my comfort zone.

I drive home an hour late from my shift and miss the clapping. I am told there really WAS clapping.

So they were some of the bad things that happened. I didn't even mention no PPE. Not in theatre, on labour ward, or for any other than symptomatic COVID exposure. And even then, we were down to the last visor.

But there was no thought for self at any point, from any health professional I met that day. Or from any cleaner, porter or admin staff. I am so BLOODY PROUD of them all. Of us all.

And so that brings me to my title 'This One's On Us'. The sticker on the box of cakes that Waitrose gave me for the midwives.

It sums up our mission, our commitment to the British people.

We will step up, skill-up, man-up and show-up.

Each and every day.

For as long as it takes.

Whatever the cost.

But when this is over -

and it will be over.

Be in no doubt.

WE ARE GONNA HAVE THE MOTHER FUCKER OF ALL PARTIES.

And a pay rise.