I’m feeling pretty rough today, and my eyelids are pink and look as though they are trying to slide down off my face. That’s what they look like when I’ve been crying a lot.
When I was in hospital with Freddie, the day I was taken onto the delivery suite for the second time, I was put in a wheelchair and wheeled around to the neo-natal area to see where Freddie would go if he was delivered safely. We looked at all the small plastic cots and were even shown the one that Freddie would have gone in. After about 3-4 minutes, I started to feel a little nauseous, my skin seemed to go damp very suddenly and I found it very difficult to concentrate on what the nurse was saying. I managed to tell her quietly that I felt queasy. The lights in the room seemed to glow very brightly and shimmer, much like when you look far ahead onto a hot surface and the air appears to twist in waves above it. The next thing I knew, was that I was moving, and someone was holding my head up to stop it lolling backwards completely over the back of the wheelchair. I was aware of being back in my room, but I could not seem to open my eyes, or speak. I was put on my bed and was intermittently aware of movement in the room. I realised that I had collapsed. Through tiny slits that I realised were my half open eyes, I identified the faces of my husband and my mum looking on with expressions which displayed plainly their worry. Even from feet away I saw the tears in Sam’s eyes, and his lips were crumpled, but tightly pressed together, and my mum was wearing her very best optimistic-don’t-panic-face. There were approximately 6 people in the room, aside from my husband and mum. I recognised one lady as the midwife who had admitted me the night I arrived a year ago when I lost my baby girl, and when I told her this and I knew that her name was Amanda, they were all very impressed. Apparently, my blood pressure had dipped to 60/40 and I was told it had probably been lower before they measured it.
The strangest thing was how I felt when I recovered. I wished, more than anything, that I could slip backwards into the nothingness I had just experienced; that I wasn’t there in that hospital facing so many awful prospects. I wished that I could just glide as easily as I had seemed to the first time, back to where everything was dark and quiet, and I seemed to have no thoughts. To lie there, still, it felt so peaceful, until the noise of the doctors and midwives and machines invaded it. I remember as the world of the hospital slipped away, as if I’d sunk under water and said goodbye to the ground above. Now I feel as everything catches and swirls around me, the way people divide and churn in the streets around bins and post boxes.