You are 24 weeks pregnant, your unborn daughter on the cusp of viability. You are pushing 40 and shouldn’t be pushing her out for another 16 weeks. This isn’t your first pregnancy, but you’re yet to hold a living, breathing newborn in your arms. One Easter morning, you awake to the crippling spasm of contractions. Five minutes apart. You know you must phone the labour suite, but you’re too petrified to articulate what is happening – it feels like the beginning of the end.
That was me in April 2018, and this is my story. It begins with entering a hospital that I was not to leave for over 100 days. Its ending is yet unwritten.