This time last year I was terrified. I had just discovered that I was pregnant, and the godawful waiting to see if this one would survive had begun. I remember so vividly the ice that would run through my veins every time I went to the loo. Working up the courage to pull my knickers down, in case I saw blood. And the couple of times that I did see blood, the gut-wrenching grief. Grief in anticipation; grief in memoriam.
I remember each visit to the Silver Cervix club, getting up on the table and shutting my eyes. The chilled gel (do they refrigerate the stuff?), the pressure of the scanner, listening for the telltale sound of the doctor catching her breath, or clicking her tongue. The sound that might indicate that all was not well.
I remember the doctor putting her hand gently on mine and saying, "You're terrified. What can I do to help you have confidence in this pregnancy" and knowing there was nothing she could do. If she couldn't guarantee a healthy baby, then I would remain afraid.
As my pregnancy progressed, the terror lessened in the second trimester only to return full throttle in the third, when my thoughts turned to cord accidents and unexplained stillbirths. I sobbed on my midwife's shoulder as I confessed to feeling no joy, no excitement, only dread.
And when I gave birth, my body shook uncontrollably. I knew it was the epidural that I'd been given to facilitate an external version and ventouse delivery of my stubbornly posterior baby, but the shaking reminded me of fear, and so I was frightened again. When my son finally emerged, the firs thing I said was "He's not crying, is he OK?" Even in the face of medical personnel who were clearly not at all worried, I fully expected God or fate or whoever to be reminded of my presence and thus of the need to hurt me.
My son is now 4 and a half months old, and I sobbed secretly last night at the thought of losing him. What used to pass as prayer is now a half-formed, primal chant: pleasedon'ttakemybabypleasedon'ttakemybabypleasedon'ttakemybaby.
Please don't.
