Van Morrison’s mama told him “there’ll be days like this”. I don’t think this day is what Van Morrison’s mama had in mind. This morning started with a phone call to say my Auntie was in hospital. Then my husband had to have a CT scan done and while I was busy panicking and imagining all sorts of icky illnesses he might have, I started feeling pretty unwell. Actually, I wasn’t well all night, but waiting for them to examine my husband’s head exacerbated it. Once they were done with my husband’s head he demanded that I call my doctor, dialling the number himself and thrusting it in my hand. I was told to come in immediately, which made me panic all the more. Once at the surgery I was hustled past the swine flu patients in their masks into triage and attended by two nurses and two doctors. I spent the rest of the day flitting from doctor to pathology to radiology back to doctor’s surgery. Tonight, Auntie is still in hospital, but in good care with a condition that is serious, but very treatable; the husband is doing fine and happily munching on toast, and baby and me are still together. Tonight we’re all tired, but still very much alive and all grateful to have one another, as we always are.
Today I heard the heartbeat of my child for the first time. I don’t know how to write about it and it doesn’t seem to matter. Some things defy description, but I’m sure anyone who has experienced this will understand the magnitude of moments like that. I’m not the first person, nor the last, to have a baby, but this is a first for me, so forgive me if I celebrate just a little with writing. I promise not to get too gushy or boring. As a writer how will I know what I’m feeling unless I write it down? Even as I write this I understand the absurdity of what I’m saying, but I also know how it is for me. Writing is therapy. A former tutor of mine said she writes to see what she’s going to say next. In a way I think we all do.