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Unicorns That’s A Horrible Idea Count Me In Shirt, hoodie, tank top
I woke to the barely there contractions of early labour. It was a few days before my due date in my second pregnancy – a pregnancy seemingly without complications. The Moses basket was out and my hospital bag packed; everything was ready for our baby boy. He was kicking as normal.
As the day went on, my contractions remained mild and far apart. I kept to the plan discussed with our midwives: stay at home as long as possible, no rushing to the maternity ward. I took our two-year-old son, Alex, for a walk with a friend and we collected conkers. When I sang Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star at Alex’s bedtime, the baby kicked hard, as he had done most days, as if he recognised the song, knew our routine.
Not long after, a shiver went through me. Something felt wrong. The baby’s movements had slowed.
I called the number for our community midwives. Had I tried drinking something cold, eating the things that made him kick, the midwife asked. I had, but I tried again while on the phone. Nothing. She told me to go to my hospital, King’s in south London, and to explain I had hardly felt the baby move for a while.
I took a minicab, leaving my husband at home with our sleeping son. I imagined someone would scan the baby, reassure me and send me home to try to sleep before my labour really got going. At the very worst, they would tell me the baby was in some kind of danger and he would be delivered by emergency C-section. His father would miss the birth, but they would have all the years that followed.
The maternity ward was quiet. It felt empty, but it probably wasn’t. I was seen immediately by a friendly but calm midwife. She was silent as she scanned our baby, running over and over him, then stopping in one place.
I don’t know who told me. I have different versions in my mind, though only one can be true. I think the midwife went out and came back with a doctor. I do remember the words. “Your baby’s heart has stopped.”
Another doctor came in, scanned and told me the same. I refused to believe it.
I asked the doctors to restart his heart. It couldn’t stop beating while he was still attached, surely? I’m alive, so he must be, I said. Get him out, save him.
“It doesn’t work like that,” the doctor said. “He’s died.”
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