Within five minutes, I’ve managed to chuck on one of Daniel’s tracksuits, order an Uber, and get en route to the hospital. I tap away impatiently at the door handle as we drive. There’s not a soul out on the streets, unsurprisingly, given it’s 4 a.m. and frost covers the cars and trees.
By the time I make it to the ward, less than thirty minutes later, my mum is pacing up and down the corridor of the maternity unit. Daniel is sitting in one of the chairs, his head in his hands.
“What’s happened?” I ask as I reach my mum.
“She’s, she’s…” She’s barely able to string two words together, her face a ghostly white. Daniel still has his head in his hands, clearly shell-shocked.
I see a doctor walking toward us and wave him down.
“Doctor. Doctor. Can you tell me what’s wrong with my sister?”
“Who’s your sister?” His tone is calm and collected as he walks forward briskly.
“Kelly. Kelly Foster.” The words rush out of my mouth.
The name stops him in his tracks.
The look on his face is one of concern, not reassurance.
“The umbilical cord got wrapped around the baby’s throat and we had to rush to get the baby out. Your sister suffered an amniotic fluid embolism during the process.” He coughs and clears his throat. “Unfortunately, your sister’s lost a lot of blood and has gone into shock. If we don’t do something right now, we’re going to lose them both.”
I reach for the wall for support.
Lose them both?
“But I saw her. Just a few hours ago. She was fine.”
“I appreciate that’s a lot to take in. But I need to head in there right now and I’m going to ask you to wait out here.”
The doctor heads into the ward, closing the door behind him and leaving me in the corridor.
My chest constricts and I struggle to breathe.
How is this evening happening? How can everything have changed so quickly?
My legs start to wobble as my head goes light.
I know this feeling and it doesn’t end well. I steady myself against the wall again, and catching sight of the disabled toilet along the corridor, push myself over toward it. I just manage to make it inside as vomit pours out of me. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead as I drop to my knees, hugging the toilet bowl.
After a few more retches, I manage to pull myself up off the floor, flush, and lean on the sink. I splash cold water over my face and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look like I’ve just seen a ghost.
I reach for my phone and, doing a quick search on umbilical cords wrapped around a baby’s neck at birth, see that it’s relatively common. It occurs in twenty to thirty percent of births.
I let out a deep exhale and start to look up amniotic fluid embolism. As I hit enter, I hear an almighty scream. It’s the exact same scream I’d heard when they told my mother that my father had died, in this very hospital.
This must be a nightmare.
This must be a nightmare.
I pinch myself repeatedly, trying to wake up, but it’s not working.
This cannot be happening.
I see my pupils dilate in the mirror and my body temperaturerapidly rises alongside my heartbeat. My chest rises and falls in quick movements.
I can’t open that door. I won’t open that door.
If I stay in here, everything will be alright. I nod back at myself in the mirror for reassurance. It gives me false hope as someone pulls on the door handle.
