The Birth Partner by Penny Simkin

There is a darkness at the heart of England, hidden below its tepid, flat surface.

We each do what we can to hold the darkness back, fearful that were it to claim us, we would swiftly sink deep into its hideous abyss, like Jack the Ripper, Pete Sutcliffe, Dennis Nilsen before us… But most of all, we fear ending up like the patron saints of unrepressed middle England: Fred and Rose West.

The Birth Partner by Penny Simkin is without doubt the scariest book I’ve read since Gordon Burn’s iconic “Cool Britannia” era true crime horror book, Happy Like Murderers, and it is similarly a text that shows – in excruciating, visceral detail – the potential terrifying consequences of a failure to repress sexual urges.

While the Wests pursued ever crueller and more elaborate sex and sexualities in order to fulfil a gnawing hunger for sensuality, Burn – and the public consciousness of England – makes it very clear that it was not these two being monsters that caused the death and violence and loss that they left in their wake, but something far simpler; they escaped that urge to repress, deeply, any bodily urge. And once lust is out of its shell, there is no putting it back. (Is what England says.)

The case studies, data points and anecdotal interviewees of The Birth Partner may not all have the corpses of multiple missing women decomposing in their gardens and home crevasses, sure, but what they have all done – as I have done – is permit the forbearance of restraint.

This is a book of consequence, of blunt bodily horror, of true life narratives, of predictions and explanations, of medicine and tradition, of science and luck, of truth and trust and the devastating destruction of a body.

It is a 400 page book on the process – from the smoothest possible version to the longest, hardest, scariest series of possible events – of accompanying someone (probably someone you yourself have impregnated) as they give birth.

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One of my favourite lines from the Bible is Matthew 5:28, commonly known (by me) as “The Adulterer’s Defence”.

I’m typing this on a non-5G enabled tube line (Victoria staying free!) so can’t look it up verbatim, but to paraphrase, it is this: “to look on a woman with lust is to commit adultery in your heart.” Basically, Matthew (whoever he was!) claimed that finding someone attractive is *the* sin of adultery, rather than the sex itself, thus arguing that once you’ve felt the urge and the mutual vibes, you may as well fuck because God has already judged you and found you wanting.

I don’t know anyone who has tried to use this argument in self justification (though please let me know in the comments if you have!) but I find it hard to imagine that there are many people walking through the world who never feel any attraction at all, save that to their designated and bureaucratically confirmed long term sexual partner. Maybe there are, though, who knows? Because in England we don’t talk about sexuality, as we see a very very very very very thin line between actively enjoying sex with a loving partner (or horny friend/acquaintance/stranger) and like torturing someone to death because you get off on it. Both are – here in England – acts beyond the acceptable. (“You enjoy having sex with your partner? Eww, friend, TMI.”)

Much like Matthew 5:28. Wanting something, not doing it, is the thing to feel ashamed about…

And once you’re dealing with the shame and the guilt and the sin, what’s the point in not following through? Right? 🤪🤪🤪

Nowhere does this attitude become more obviously bullshit than when we’re talking about the urge to evacuate a raw liquid containing active spermatozoa towards the fallopian tubes of an ovulating human with a womb. Wanting to do this causes nothing to happen. Actively allowing this to happen, perpetuating this act, can cause consequences the like of which you’ve never seen.

Penny Simkim, in a chatty yet informed manner, talks a reader through absolutely anything and everything that could happen while a person gives birth, but parsed here for the benefit of a person who is accompanying the birthing person, rather than being them.

Simkin’s ultimate message, though, is very clear: whether you’re accompanying someone you’re legally married to, someone you knocked up who you barely know, someone who is a close friend, a sibling, a child, a cousin, whatever, the message is to remain calm… To be a source of comfort and attention and assistance, not a bawling, fainting, wreck grossed out by blood and shit and guts and the umbilical cord.

There is a lot – and the reason why the book is such a harrowing read – about what could go wrong, and what doctors, midwives etc can do, might do and will do if and when any of these things happen. These can vary from the inconvenient, through to the disastrous.

A smooth birth, an easy labour, is still a major event. An easy labour is only “easy” in comparison to a more difficult labour, and in no way as easy as evacuating the spermatozoa required for the birthing body to end up in that mess.

Simkin explains a lot.

She reassures, but she doesn’t pull punches. She is direct and blunt and though there are definitely some moments when parochial American customs and behaviours are normalised that don’t apply to progressive London hipsters (some of the examples of reassuring and encouraging statements to say to your labouring friend employ language more patronising than I use when praising my dog for shitting outside), but ultimately this book absolutely achieves its purpose: to explain to those who have responded to terrible urges exactly what is about to happen to them.

Am I ready to witness my lover’s body open up and a baby appear from within? I mean, I’d love to witness someone I had absolutely no emotional or social connection with going through the same harrowing process first, but that doesn’t seem to be an option.

Will knowing what to expect – the best and worst options – help me to be present and calm and grounded while in the room? Hopefully! I hope so!

My body won’t be affected by the process (oh no, I might not sleep for 24 hours and might have to survive off hospital vending machines for a day or two, boohoo), but the purpose of me being there is to, essentially, not make things worse. Not panicking, not being railroaded into agreeing to medical procedures for another person they wouldn’t want to go through, etc etc etc. And knowing what should happen, what could happen and what might happen is the only real way to fight against any kind of panic in the birthing centre.

Simkin offers a discursive and important book that – I fucking hope – will have been useful when the time comes for me to pass through accompanying a person through this harrowing process.

In Romans 6:23, (as quoted in Marlowe’s Dr Faustus, which is where I know it from) the Bible writer states: “the wages of sin is death”.

England teaches us that this is always the case, and though it isn’t necessarily true (I know at least three people who claim to enjoy sex yet don’t appear to be terrifying), Simkin makes it clear that one can suffer terrible consequences from a single act of passion. There won’t necessarily be suffering during labour, but there will always be some pain (again, neither is likely for me unless I, like, fall off a toilet while playing Connections or something). It’s not going to be an easy day or two, whatever happens.

Labour is going to be a BIG deal. Hopefully, thanks to Penny Simkim, I (at least) won’t be freaked out or surprised by any eventualities, though I certainly do have many many things to worry about that I’d never worried about before…

And, of course, at the end of the process you end up with a free baby, so that’s a nice little silver lining, innit, I hope?

Now to find a book or two on what comes next!