Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Write something AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL (10/02/14)
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TITLE: My Perfectly Imperfect Family. | Previous Challenge Entry
By Danielle King
10/09/14 -
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This can’t be happening. I’ll get the test repeated tomorrow.
But, within minutes, I received confirmation. One, two, three… wispy butterfly kicks that knocked my socks off.
Steve, my husband was working late, but my next best confidante and long suffering sounding board was always around. I threw on a towel and hastily rummaged her out.
April 5th 1974
‘It’s true,’ I scribbled. ‘Today I saw three tiny pinhead bumps. I am sixteen weeks pregnant and I’m over the moon.’
And so was Steve. And the in-laws and out-laws. The knitting needles began to click in earnest.
At antenatal class we mums-to-be compared notes and bumps and baby names, not forgetting wussy husbands and the potential for interfering mothers-in-law.
The months flew by. Almost time, on a routine clinic appointment the doctor asked what sized shoe I took. I glanced down at my pretty, patent slip-ons and asked if she was planning a jumble sale.
“Not today,” she laughed.
“I’m size 3,” I told her.
“And how tall is your husband?” I was bemused.
“Six foot.”
“You’re petite,” she said. “We’ll admit you for induction of labour. That way we can counter any potential problems with a Caesarean section.”
I was disappointed. I wanted to give birth naturally, but of course the well-being of baby was priority.
The following morning I was hooked up to IV’s and the waiting began. Before long the labour pains started and as instructed I called the nurse. Everything was fine. She attached a foetal heartbeat monitor. A while later she returned with a syringe – for the pain, she told me.
Wham!
I surfaced briefly at some point to hear two people discussing foetal distress and false readings.
I resurfaced after midnight with two midwives yelling at me to push. I had slept throughout labour and Steve’s visit.
At 01.40 my baby was born – silent. He was whisked into an annexe somewhere behind me. I heard suction sounds and nothing more.
I called for someone to let me know what was happening. My calls went unanswered. Eventually a third person entered the room pushing an unoccupied incubator.
“Is my baby dead?” I sobbed.
“No… listen, can’t you hear him crying?”
I heard a feeble whimper. I was allowed a fleeting glimpse before he was transferred to Special Care in the incubator.
For two weeks I watched mums and babies come and go. I penned letters to baby Daniel, telling him how much me and daddy loved him. I was not going home without him.
I wanted answers. I asked to see the consultant paediatrician. He waffled on about ‘floppy’ babies, poor muscle co-ordination and the likelihood that Daniel would catch up in time.
But why? What had gone wrong? Why did the C-section not happen?
The telephone rang. He excused himself and left the office briefly. The open case notes were too tempting. I read the diagnosis – ‘early cerebral palsy.’
It was five years later at the birth of our second son Jack, when still driven to know the truth, I found it.
The case-notes were left on the bed table before the ward round began. I turned the pages to Daniel’s birth notes and quickly scanned an entry suggesting all was not well and the on-call Consultant be contacted.
A later entry stated, ‘Dr Jordan informed. REFUSED TO DELIVER.’ This was underlined in red.
It seems that in-house politics or principles or some other triviality was at play whilst Daniel’s brain was being starved of oxygen.
Our beautiful child was still unable to control his bowels and bladder, drooled constantly from the mouth, didn’t speak and eventually required ‘Special Needs’ education.
Life did not become easier. That was merely the tip of the iceberg. It slowly melted, threatening to engulf us as young Jack developed different problems, yet equally disabling.
Sadly, there were elements of self-righteous judgement and blame from those we least expected. Only God knows the truth.
And Steve, the pimply youth who once belted out heavenly music in church circles, lost sight of God.
As for me, I love my perfectly imperfect, non-functioning family to bits. We are who we are, and where we are, so there’s no point in recriminations.
Next week Daniel will be forty years old. He’s chosen to spend his birthday at the Zoo.
We kinda blend in!
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At first I rifled with various emotions--first, "anger"in the delay of delivery--to rejoicing, in the fact that God gave you a heart filled with love and compassion, as is so abundantly apparent through your words.
You've managed to allow us to look beyond the words into your lovely soul by your brilliant talent of writing.
Thank you for sharing.
God bless~