March 7


One of the things that are keeping me sane in here is routine. Little things like crossing the day off the calendar, ordering tomorrow’s meals and finishing my daily doctor visits give me great satisfaction. They bring me closer to the end of each day, closer to a 2-3% increase in your chance of being healthy, closer to a day when our family of four is together again in the new house we bought for you and your brother to grow up in. That’s what keeps me going. It’s what makes me feel sane and relatively happy.

Today one of my doctors came in and asked me a whole bunch of new questions. As I edge towards 26 weeks – that’s right, you are nearly at 26 weeks, where no doctor, nurse or sonographer ever thought you would be – they are becoming more worried about how the bed rest will affect us and less about your immediate survival. So I suppose that’s a good sign in a sense, though there is a new danger to consider. Stroke. Tomorrow, at 26 weeks gestation and on bed rest I have two risk factors for having a stroke, and the doctors are concerned. I suppose the fact that they are now less concerned about going into labour should be comforting. For some reason it’s not.

The solution is to inject me every day with clexane, which I don’t know much about except that it’s a blood thinner and blood thinners aren’t recommended for pregnancy. It also means that for twelve hours following an injection I won’t be able to have an epidural so a c section would have to be done under general anaesthetic unless I go into labour at night.

This seems a bit risky to me – before I came in here my doctor and I had discussed having a c section after what happened with your brother’s birth. Before I knew what would happen at 23 weeks gestation we talked about the fact that a c section meant that I would take on a bit of extra risk on your behalf. And it makes sense, given that even then it was likely that a natural birth would have risks for me, and that eventually you would be born via emergency Caesar like your brother. I was okay with that at the time – I am more than okay with it now. I would prefer it. It’s been noted on my file and I tell the doctors each day and in no uncertain terms – I want you to be born by c section. I know you are small, I know your birth will be fairly quick if it happens naturally. Something just urges me from the inside out to make sure you are brought into this world in a controlled way if at all possible. With so much going against you, I couldn’t care less about the recovery or the risk to me. At this point, I don’t even care that it’s admitting a failure on the part of my body. That not only am I most likely not going to be able to carry you to term, but that I won’t give birth to you in the way that nature intended. I would have loved that, for you and your brother. I really would have. But right now, it is insignificant. I know this is the most important way I can advocate for you at the moment. Given how little I can do to keep you safe…I guess I feel passionate about it. Dad and I will discuss it in detail tonight.


I’ve been madly trying to finish an article today that needs to be sent by a deadline, and I haven’t had time yet to really spend time with you or your brother. Each day I think about how I can do that a bit better. But it seems it doesn’t really come to fruition for the most part.

Just before dinner you came running in from the lounge room screaming at me. “Mummy, mummy! There’s a rabbit man! He’s coming to get me!”

This is new. When your brother was very young he occasionally told me he saw a man in our lounge room. It only happened a few times, but each time it did our grandfather clock opened without explanation. It was built by my grandfather, my pop, who I was very close to. I thought it was a bit creepy, but a huge coincidence. Then when I was in hospital and for a few months beyond, I heard a voice of reassurance. I can’t explain it, but I did. And now, years later, you are seeing a rabbit man who just isn’t there. Apparently he is larger than life and wants to hurt you, or so you think. You won’t go near him, or at least, you won’t go near the spot on the couch where you think he sits. You are utterly petrified and terribly specific in your description of him.

It occurs to me that this is just a childish fantasy, but I do wonder if this apparition has a purpose. If we have a guardian angel in our midst. I suppose it’s only fitting after our last few years. I don’t know whether to encourage you to make friends with it or tell you to hit it with a pillow. Time will tell I suppose. Meanwhile, I’m off to remove any rabbit looking toys from your bed room in the hopes of a good night sleep.

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