February 26


Dad and I spoke about resuscitating again today. He’s worried for you. He hates the thought of your life being less than it should. He feels helpless and so do I. But he trusts me and supports me and I’m able to reassure him because I know you’ll be fine. Just remember to keep fighting. Whatever happens, don’t let it beat you. From the kicks in my tummy I can already tell you are a survivor. In a moment of weakness I am second guessing myself and willing you internally, as if by diffusion through my very cell walls – fight. Win. Don’t leave me. I will do whatever it takes for every day of your life. Just fight. Don’t go.

And then the voice comes again, calming me and telling me. “Don’t fight what’s happening now. She’s going to be okay.”

He nurse comes in every six hours to do fetal heart rate measures and feel my tummy. Her name is Rose. She is lovely and kind and has the perfect bedside manner. She giggles as you dance around my tummy. Every time she gets a reading you flit off, swimming to the other side of my belly. Taunting her. It takes a long time to get a long enough reading to check your heart rate, but when you finally humour us I am buoyed by your spirit.

I have begun embroidering. Yes, I know, I am the least capable seamstress on God’s green earth, but there it is. I’m and embroiderer now. My friend Frankie brought it in for me and for some reason the monotony and consistency of it make the time go quickly.

Every morning I have my breakfast at 6 when the orderlies bring it in. Then I read the paper online, (Uncle Benj brought in a dongle for me so I can use the internet). Then I embroider for two hours. Then read my book for an hour. Then lunch.

The meals I don’t really eat, I pick at. Breakfast is okay. It’s hard to get toast and cereal wrong. I have the same every day – tinned fruit, toast and a yoghurt. I’d rather muesli but they don’t have it. Lunch is questionable, but usually comes with mashed potato. I eat that and have a fruit juice with it.

After lunch I fill in tomorrow’s menu and re-read the paper. I write down a few things that happened today and usually spend a few hours wrapping up the business. Your Dad and I decided to sell it as I can’t run it from here and I intend to be here for the long haul. I often have visitors too in the afternoon. Then dinner and your Dad comes in and we have our own routine. We talk about the various doctors I have seen, he catches me up on the news I am missing and we watch a show together. Aside from not being at home with Lachie and Jack, (he’s our dog), it’s incredibly normal. The routine keeps me going. It’s like this is my job, being in here, following this routine. Keeping you safe.

And before I go to sleep I sing to you, because I know you can hear me and I want you to stay inside me. And then I pray, because there is a voice in my head telling me it’s all okay and I feel I have to respond to it. So every night I ask for it to help me keep you safe for one more day.

Maybe I am going crazy inside these four sterile white walls with no fresh air. But at the moment it works, so I’ll keep doing it.


Today we had together, just the three of us. You and Lachie have swimming and I visit the gym, but then it’s just us. I love these days. We dance to music, play in a band and read stories. You run around together on the deck and I am in awe of your energy. Lachie asks when his next rugby training is. You say you want to play rugby too. That’s an easy one to leave for Dad. He’d never let you play. You are so tiny and so precious, and altogether too young for rugby. But I love that you want to play. I love that you can play tea parties but steal your brother’s cars. I love that you want to be a rugby playing ballerina. I love that you are getting to be all that you want to be.

February 27

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