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I was never really that bothered if I had children or not. I was 21 and too busy enjoying myself to even think about responsibility.
On February 15th 2001 it all changed. Two little blue lines. I had no idea what I wanted to do. I told the father, hoping for a little support. Instead it was “oh fuck” then “you can’t keep it” and ” you aren’t ready for a baby”.
I wanted to scream YES I AM!!! But I couldn’t find my voice.
Next day – doctors appointment. “I’m pregnant”. I say. “Congratulations?” he says. I go cold, numb and utter the words “I don’t want to keep it.” All the while there’s a little voice in the back of my head screaming at me to stop.
A week later – 21st February – its a visit to the hospital. I have the father with me, constantly whispering to me how I’m not ready, how I couldn’t cope, how this is the right thing to do… With a nurse we work out how far along I am – 10 weeks – and they look at when I can go in. Their diary is checked… “we can fit you in tomorrow. You’ll need to be here for 7am.” A leaflet explaining the operation is thrust into my hand and that’s it. No offer of counselling.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
Thursday 22nd February 2001. He picks me up from home at 6am. I’ve got a bag packed. I’ve got a heavy feeling in my heart. I’ve got an image in my head of a baby. I don’t want to do it. I can’t stop crying.
We arrive at the hospital. The maternity block. I’m checking in at reception as a very heavily pregnant lady waddles past. The tears start again.
We’re taken upstairs into a room of 6 beds. They’re all taken. One by one or curtains are pulled round. Temperature, blood pressure, pulse is checked. The consent form is handed to me as the procedure is explained. I wasn’t listening. I was in shut down. I didn’t want to know. I wanted to leave.
I look down and see the line for my signature. I pause, that voice inside my head screaming and screaming for me to stop. I look up as a voice whispers in my ear “you aren’t ready, I told you”
With my hand shaking I sign my name. The curtain is pulled back. That’s it. I’ve just signed my baby’s life away.
The other ladies on the ward are talking to the nurses. They talk about their other children, their reasons for being there that day. It was just talk, chatter. I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t focus. I wanted to go home. I wanted it to be over.
Next thing I know they’re coming for me. Laying on the trolley I stare at the lights as I’m wheeled down the corridor to theatre. It takes 4 attempts to get the cannula into my hand. Then it all goes black..
I wake up back on the ward… My stomach hurts, my head is in pieces, my heart is broken.
A nurse comes to check my pulse, blood pressure and temperature. She brings me some tablets “antibiotics” she says, and then brings a couple of pieces of toast and a mug of tea. I’m then allowed home. No mention of after care. No mention of any support.
I feel numb. In the car on the way home I don’t speak. I hate myself for what I just did. I hate him for pushing me into it. He drops me off at home and drives away. I never saw him again.
Every day I live with the guilt of what I have done. Every day for 11 years I have thought and wondered “what if?” At my lowest points I have self harmed and contemplated suicide. Every February 22nd I look for the brightest star in the sky. Every February 22nd I cry myself to sleep. Every year I tell myself it’ll get easier…
I have since gone on to have two children – they keep me going through the bad days.
This post is an anonymous guest post written by one of the mums on my Facebook Mums Group.
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