“We are going to have to take your baby out immediately.”*

 I wasn’t sure I had heard my gynaecologist properly. I only came for my monthly antenatal check-up…and found myself suddenly wheeled into the ICU with high blood pressure. Pre-eclampsia, was whispered. Google, was consulted.

Terror, was expected.

I lay on the bed and stared silently at the little light skinned woman looking down at me as I lay, sprawled and startled, in the Intensive Care Unit. I wondered for the umpteenth time how this was happening to me. Why was I in the ICU when I felt so healthy and my baby clearly happy, as his kicks reassured at sharp intervals?!

I had zoned off from the menacing news, as though attempting to separate myself from the alarming update the doctor delivered in a toneless voice from the foot of the bed. I heard a male voice and quickly, hopefully, honed in on the sound. I realized for the first time, that the Chief Medical Officer and Head Matron had been brought, flanking along the gynaecologist’s side, angels of danger in their white coats…in case I suddenly went crazed from the bad news.

The medical team spoke with a precision that should have alarmed me. I found instead a sudden desperate need to stand up to the attack, certain that if I let myself break as assuredly as I was compelled to, I would drown in depression and never crown those waters of sadness. So, I pushed the tears to the back of my eye socket and began to dismember the hydra-headed attack. I asked, I considered, I decided.

“Are you aware that my son is only 29 weeks?” I whispered.

“Yes…but you will have other children, don’t worry!” They cheerfully assured me.

A bitter laugh escaped my throat as I incredulously insisted, “BUT I HAVE A CHILD NOW!”

By this time, white coats or not, they were merely disembodied voices punishing me with their vicious words. I began to shiver as I listened, my heart breaking with each barbed word wrapped in scientific fact. I lay on the bed feeling desperately alone and wishing the doctors had had the consideration to give this news when there was someone present to stand between us and take the heat for me.

“I understand the potential implications to my life. But no, I’m not going to let you take this baby out right now, not as a precautionary measure. No, not even as the risk of my life. Not unless it becomes absolutely critical.” I quietly, but firmly told them.

They muttered…then they encouraged. Then, they pressured and pressed. And I sank deeper into my determined shell.

…And then it became critical…

*Day 18 |  Maternity Ward Journal