On the Maternity Ward

May 20

By Hayley Bromell

In my mind I try my best to see,
The side of my mum’s life mostly unknown to me.
In lighter than NHS blue she pushes along a trolley
rushing,
mopping,
wiping,
spraying,
as she keeps the Maternity Ward professionally clean.
For 7 years she has worked within this domestic scene.
She hates it there
A part of the furniture and the office workers look right through her.
Mopping floors between the hordes of excited women and nervous men
that pass on through the rooms my mum cleans time and time again.
She loves it there
Chatting in the corridors with the friends she has made,
or with the midwives who smile with new-borns in their arms.
Blossoming life bundled in clean cotton,
The aching body of the labourer’s day forgotten
at the sight of new velvet skin
and kicking limbs.
I think of the expectant mothers who pass on through each day,
And the cleaners who are a constant, there to keep them safe.
As the 9 to 5 workers take off their masks
and channel fresh air into their lungs to shake off the day,
My mum waves them off as they walk away.
At 10pm each night she leaves her shift.
On her clothes, the chemicals within the products still seem to stick.
In my mind I trace the dents on her face from the PPE.
A cleaner,
A front-line worker,
And a mother to me.