This time last year.
(well technically tomorrow will be the actual date when labour started but it was the Friday before half term and today is also the Friday of half term and that sets off this train of thought)
Flashes haunt me.
Images burned on my mind.
Memories swirl around and jostle for position.
A hospital room. A long long day and night. Waiting. Groaning. Pain. Fog. A husband who held on and helped me breathe. Breathe. Keep breathing.
The constant question, will there be a baby? Will he ever come out? Is there an end and a beginning?
Hospital darkened rooms. Needles put in. Light of morning. Changing faces. Rushing in to the theatre and confusion. The final moments.
A small body carried across the room. Staring at the table, willing life to make its presence felt and then: Cries. My boy. My boy. My boy.
Confusion. Repairs. The news on the board in front. The medical students awkwardly staring. Husband has my boy. My boy.
Recovery. I hold my boy close and he starts to feed. My parents hold him. Night comes and visiting hours end. Where is the one who held my hand so tight? Why does he have to leave?
Now we are alone. Me and my boy. Through the long long long night. We are here. Me and my boy. Why does this feel so normal? Such wonder and yet I am not scared. I am not scared because he is my boy. My boy. My boy.
All night we stare at each other. He figures out how to drink and then falls asleep at last. I stare and stare at him. Confused. In wonder. Aching all over and yet so alive. My boy is here.