Sunday

February 2024

This is a really tough day for me. It will always be the day I went into hospital to give birth to you, but not to say hello.  

Time went both slowly and fast that morning. We had a lazy morning, hanging out with your sister. Neither of us wanted the day to start: we both wanted to press pause. I wished I could stop time and make it not happen, but I couldn’t. There are so many powers we wish we had as parents: we can’t stop time, we can’t see the future, we can’t change the past. We can only deal with now and do the kindest thing we can to cause our children the least amount of pain possible.  

Parts of that day will be tattooed into my mind for the rest of my life, yet parts are so fuzzy now, only a few weeks later. I remember trying to pack a bag and not knowing what I was packing for. It wasn’t like the labour I had last time: I didn’t need any clothes for a new baby. I didn’t know how long I would be in hospital for. I didn’t know anything.  

We were met at the door by Ella, and taken to our room. They made sure we didn’t walk past what I called the “happy deliveries” - the women who would take their babies home afterwards.  Our room was nice. It was called Heartease. I've looked up the significance of this. "The original gift of love" is what the packet of seeds says that I have since bought. I've seen it referred to as having the power to mend a broken heart and also to mean you are in my thoughts. From now on, I would imagine whoever gives birth in that room will always think of their babies that never made it when we see that flower.

It was all so strange. It was almost exciting. That’s because at that point, I still just didn’t know what to expect. Everyone made us as comfortable as possible and nothing procedural happened for some time because they wanted us to settle in. They wanted me to be comfortable. There was an endless supply of tea, offers of food, a TV to watch and then just a waiting game. Me and your daddy, just waiting. I went into hospital thinking I would have you after a few hours and then I could come home. I couldn’t have got that more wrong. I didn’t realise how long it would take for you to come. I had no idea how much it would hurt me. I had no idea how ill it would make me. Nothing could prepare me for all of that.  

For the first few hours it was almost pleasant. We watched TV. People came into the room to talk to me with kindness and make sure I was ok. I was ok for some time, but then I wasn’t. I really really wasn’t. Physically I became a mess: I was freezing cold but burning up. I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering, the pain all over me from trying to keep warm was so intense, it was frightening. They looked after me, gave me lots of medication and I lost count of the number of times my temperature was taken, my blood was taken and my observations were done. I was quite frightened at one point. I knew giving birth to you wasn’t going to be a pleasant memory, but I didn’t want to remember it like this.  

We tried to go to sleep, but as the evening went on, the pain began to increase. Again, I didn’t know that would happen. The physical pain as well as the emotional pain was almost too much to bear at one point. I watched the digital clock all night as the minutes ticked past, waiting for more painkillers, or just waiting for you to come. We went past midnight and in the hot horror of it all, I was comforted knowing that it would be over soon, yet I also wished it wasn’t. I can’t express how much I just wished I could stop time, or reverse time and stop it all from happening. I knew you were coming. I didn’t want to see you, but I knew I had to meet you. I didn’t want to give birth to you that night, but I knew I had to.  

When it was all over, I was so relieved, I can’t tell you. The worry, the anxiety, the pain and the fear had kept me going until that moment, and then I was exhausted. It was over, baby girl. You were out of my body but would always be in my heart. I am so sorry you are gone. I wish I could have kept you. 

x