Getting into the car, I waved to my daughter as my husband and I drove away, leaving her with her grandparents. It was May 2009 and Sophie, 21 months, was being looked after by my in-laws while my husband Trevor, then 26, drove us to Basildon University Hospital. I had just gone into labour at 41 weeks and was looking forward to meeting our new baby girl. Since I’d been through labour before, I thought I knew what to expect as we drove to the maternity unit. I’d already given up my job as a nurse to be at home with the girls, my birth plan was ready, and we’d washed all the baby clothes, Trevor had even painted the nursery.
Panic and confusion
Arriving at the hospital, we were feeling calm. Only, as the doctor did some checks, his face darkened.
‘I’m sorry, but the baby is showing signs of distress, Kay,’ the doctor explained calmly. ‘We need you to deliver now.’
‘What do you mean? What’s wrong?’ I asked, the panic rising inside me.
Trevor and I tried to ask more questions, but no one could tell us anything. Midwives took me to the delivery ward, where my waters were broken, and moments later, contractions were coming strong and fast.
After 40 minutes, I was told to push.
But as soon as the baby was born, she was whisked away, I didn't even get to see her. ‘What is it? Where is she going?’ I cried. ‘She’s very unwell,’ one of the midwives told us. I should have been cuddling and feeding my newborn, but instead, she’d been hooked up to machines and was undergoing tests.
Trevor went with the baby while I went through the after stages of labour, but he was given little information. An hour later, he wheeled me down to see our newborn, Isabel. She looked so frail, wires going in and out of her tiny body.
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Denne historien er fra June 08, 2020-utgaven av WOMAN'S OWN.
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