March 1990
“Bit small for your dates” the doctor says. “So what” I think. However, I am suddenly divided between slight concern and trying not to jump to wrong conclusions. I think positively, “I’ve got as far as thirty-three weeks, the baby is obviously alive and kicking, millions of people have perfectly healthy babies at this stage, albeit some premature, what could possibly go wrong?” My mother’s words “Oh, some people make such a lot of fuss over the whole thing”, spring from nowhere.
The room is small, square, without windows and claustrophobic. The scanning equipment is grey and cold matching my now poor circulation and slightly clammy hands. I make light conversation but fail to take in that my comments are not being responded to in the normal friendly way of medical staff, and that they are not looking me in the eye. “Of course they are not looking at me directly” I think, “they are concentrating on what they are doing!” However, they are indeed talking softly between themselves but I can’t make out what they are saying due to the hum of the equipment, or has my hearing independently started to shut down? The radiographer leaves the room.
The news is broken gently in almost a whispered tone. I’m unable to take in much of what is said, other than two words which seem to stand out in the middle of the sentence “bad news”. I know I’m in the room alone but feel the need to look round to check I am the one being addressed. The bare walls seem to be closing in and pulsating in time to my heartbeat. Inevitably the statutory cup of tea is offered but my throat seems to have closed up. Two pained faces give me the impression I’m not reacting in the required manner and these worsen when I imply that I intend to make my own way home on public transport.
My world is just starting to disintegrate but comfortingly outside in the drizzle, the street is busy as usual with double-deckers charging up and down, sweet papers struck in hedgerows, cars jostling for position, people waiting bored silly at bus stops. A mother with a young child sits near me on the bus and I suddenly feel oddly uncomfortable and find myself staring at the child as if I’d never seen one before.
Like grains of sand falling through an upturned egg-timer, as every minute passes the realisation and hopelessness of my situation becomes more real. In fact I’m beginning to feel a bit tearful and wonder if I should have ordered a taxi…. but taxis are for emergencies only, aren’t they?
