Five years ago my son was brought into this world, limp and blue and alone. His birth happened to me, despite me and in spite of me. A stranger’s hand plucked him from my tummy as I slept, and he was taken to have tubes inserted. A stranger coaxed that first breath into his lungs and watched as his skin began to turn pink. A stranger held his little body and wrapped him in a blue blanket, safe and snug and breathing at last.
And I slept on.
I knew I was in labour. I’d known for hours but had been too scared to tell anyone. My body was betraying me and I wanted to deny what was happening; I wanted my elective section in three days time, not these messy contractions. Not this fear. Not this terror. And I was terrified….