It happened one day in work before a presentation. Red that I shouldn’t see, blood where it shouldn’t be. My throat gaspy, my head light, my hands wet.
Hot, fast tears. Was this the end of counting weeks and days, of wondering about square nails or round, long or short tiny fingers and toes?
The end of going down the baby aisle, the faint smell of wipes and nappy bags enthralling all my senses. Powdery perfection. Would I lie on a table and lose her?
I got in a cab; I didn’t want to text my husband, not just yet. Dreams of baking buns for Daddy, strolling to Poolbeg on a Saturday, the three of us; weren’t just mine alone. I wanted to leave him with our dream for a little longer.
I got there. Orange squeaky floors, busy, bedlam. Clean, hushed, men walking with packed bags. Bellies bigger than mine. Sam Smith on the radio, Stay With Me a little louder than it should have been. Too much for me now, timely words.
I was next. A lady with a perm raised her eyebrows. I’m bleeding, I said meekly.
She sent me to Emergency; there was a couple there ahead of me. The girl was heavily pregnant, older than me, a heart-shaped face. Her partner with her looking dishevelled, distraught.
He stood up to let me sit down and she looked at me, wondering I suppose because at this stage my body was almost unchanged. Not showing the world who I had become, feeling like a mother, a protector since the day I saw the two blue lines.
Our conversation was short. What was I here for, she asked me. I told her, my voice broke when I said that I was eleven weeks my lip trembling like a small girl. I asked her too, baby isn’t moving she said. Fat tears rolling down her cheeks, though she seemed calm, stoic. Dunno what to be doing with myself at home, and then she grabbed my hand. This stranger here, holding my hand, holding me together in the emergency queue.
She told me about her seven months, about her scans, about her baby sucking their thumb. About how it was harder to see them now that they were bigger. I told her about my eleven weeks. My lime, my tomato and now my kiwi sized baby. In that moment, both fearing the worst, both hoping for the best. Hanging on. A squeeze every time I mentioned our little one inside me.
The bleeding, I could still feel it. Happens all the time she said, text your husband, get him down here. So I did, and when he came down everything was better. Like it always is. That day we were lucky and we are still so lucky.
It’s now seven weeks until we meet our baby. She sits comfortably in my big belly as I write this.
I think of my emergency hand holder all the time and I like to imagine her strolling somewhere pushing her buggy. In the midst of her own worry, her own pain, she looked after me.
The best type of mother there is.
Denise Farrell works in communications and is also a freelance writer. She is married to Adrian and they’re due their first baby in October. Catch up with her on Twitter.
