four months later, here I am, having to make good on my promise and failing at the first hurdle. ‘Is he all right, is he breathing?’
The midwife breaks eye contact with me, looks over at the heart monitor, unease flitting across her face.
‘What the hell is happening? Just tell me!’ My eyes flick from the midwife to James, another contraction starting somewhere in my lower back.
James swallows hard before grabbing tightly hold of my hand. ‘The baby…’ He looks down between my legs. ‘The cord, it seems to…’
‘Your baby’s in distress, Louisa.’ The midwife jumps up and pushes my left leg back so it’s virtually wrapped around my neck like I’m some kind of fucking contortionist.
‘Oh my God, just pull him out, please!’
‘Enough!’ Her tone is enough to silence me. ‘The cord is wrapped around your baby’s neck and it’s vital you push right now so I can try and loosen it!’
I push with every last ounce of strength, not allowing myself to think or feel anything apart from the sickening realisation that my baby’s in danger. I push and grunt and pant for what seems like hours, all the while picturing the face of my half-born child, the baby who’s haunted my dreams and nightmares for the past thirteen years.
‘Stop!’ The midwife’s voice cuts through the pain. ‘Stop pushing. He’s stuck. Hold the push, hold it now!’
‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, please help me!’ The contractions continue to ripple through me, so quickly now that I’m no longer sure where one ends and another begins. I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I draw blood, feel a rib crack under the pressure.
‘Louisa, stop pushing!’ James’s fear is almost palpable.
I grab hold of his hand and feel his bones crunch underneath my grasp as another contraction tears me apart. ‘I can’t stop, I can’t!’
Then, without any kind of warning, everything around me speeds up, like I am watching an old VCR on fast forward. The midwife dives up and over to the far wall, pressing a button which causes a siren to blare, the sound puncturing my eardrum right at the same moment the double doors fly open, spewing out masses of people who swarm around me like flies.
‘We need to carry out an episiotomy,’ I hear her say to somebody in a white coat who floats just out of reach. ‘The cord’s double-looped and baby’s heart rate has dipped dangerously low.’
Everything slowly starts to fade away, sights and sounds spliced through their middle. I stare out at my surroundings through smudged lenses, doctors and nurses melting into the background until only streaks of colour skim across my vision. I try to fight my way out, to bring myself back to the present in order to save my baby, but I am trapped, trapped in a silent world where nothing is how it should be.
‘Louisa, I’m Doctor Dhingra. The midwife is going to make a small cut in order to get your baby out.’ I look over to the source of the sound, my brain unable to process what is being said. I nod, dumbfounded, and am only vaguely aware of the burning pain between my legs, followed closely by the tugging sensation which seems to last for an eternity.
James’s voice washes over me. I know he is shouting but I can’t quite make out what he is saying, only that it is bad. I blink over at him. He is now on the other side of the room, bent double, a metal trolley to the side of him, surrounded by several strangers who all poke and prod a lifeless scrap of purple flesh in the centre. Inside I scream. Inside I thrash around and pray to God to help the doctors save the little scrap of flesh on the trolley because he might not look like anything to them but to me he is everything.
Eerie silence falls down all around me, my own ragged breaths the only sound in the room. ‘Why isn’t he crying?’ My voice is barely a whisper. ‘What’s happened to my baby?’
James looks over at me, his head shaking ever so slightly from side to side. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouths, tears streaming from his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’
As his words resonate within me, I am suddenly pulled back into the past, once again looking out through five-year-old eyes, the smell of burnt toast in my nostrils, my world collapsing like dominoes all around me. I don’t move, can’t move, a scream of terror trapped inside my throat.
At first I don’t understand what’s happening. Why is a baby crying somewhere in my mother’s house? I don’t have a brother. I always wanted one but I never got one. And then, slowly and somehow all at once, the shrill cry grabs me by the scruff of the neck and hauls me back into the present, shrinking everything back into focus, the doctors and nurses once again speaking a succession of words I don’t understand. The crying continues, rising in volume and pitch. I daren’t look, daren’t believe, and then before I can think another thought, my baby is on me, causing shock waves to pulsate through me, restarting my broken heart.
I look down at him and he stares up at me, our hearts beating as one, his skin melting into mine. ‘Hello, Cory,’ I whisper, his name on my lips the most beautiful sound I’ve ever spoken. ‘I’m your mummy.’ I look over at James, his face collapsing in on itself as he makes his way over towards us. ‘And this is your daddy. And you have no idea how long we’ve waited to meet you.’
Louisa
Now
‘You’re a mum, Louisa. An actual mum.’ I whisper the words to my own reflection, causing a smile to spread the entire width of my face.
There’s nothing quite like the mirror in a hospital toilet to make you look even worse than you already do. My skin is paper-thin under the harsh glare of the overhead strip light and my coppery-red hair looks like a ransacked bird’s nest. And yet none of that stuff seems to matter any more. Because I am a mum.
I love the word ‘mum’, love how softly it sits on my lips as I speak it out loud. It’s an insignificant sound really, one syllable, three measly letters, and yet it means so much to so many. I’m sure it means more to me than most, although I suppose any new mother would say the same. But not every mother has sacrificed what I have to hold the title. Some would probably say I sacrificed too much to have a baby, but, after holding Cory in my arms, I’d have to disagree. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
I continue to stare closely into the glass, searching for the person who resides behind my eyes. Outwardly nothing has changed; my freckles still stick together across the bridge of my nose and my top lip remains a fraction too thin. But inside, I am different, I am new. It’s almost as if the moment I set eyes on Cory, I too was born into a new world.
I haven’t had it easy. My life hasn’t always been white picket fences and foreign holidays. For so many years I hoped, prayed even, that one day everything would slot into place, that I would somehow live the life I always knew was out there.
I met James ten years ago, when I was just nineteen and he twenty-nine. He was a trainee anaesthetist at the local hospital where I was an outpatient, my anxious mind reaching new heights as I steamrolled into adulthood. I was smoking a roll-up cigarette under a glass shelter outside the entrance, the cold biting the tips of my fingers as I sucked in nicotine like my life depended on it. I didn’t want to continue with the counselling sessions my GP had recommended, didn’t like where they were heading. ‘Got a light?’ James asked, his accent clearly northern but less harsh than the Salford drawl I was used to. I said I did and continued to fumble around inside my handbag for what seemed like hours, the silver clipper lighter nowhere to be seen.
In the end I passed him my roll-up, its filter smeared with blood-red lipstick. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, embarrassed by the whole situation. He bent down, cupped his hands around mine as he sucked on the end of his Silk Cut, trying his damnedest to light it.
‘You fancy a coffee across the road?’ he asked. ‘It’s bloody freezing out here.’
‘Sure,’