A year in waiting rooms

Amy,

You won’t remember this given all you’ve been through today, but there was a cinnamon sky this morning when it looked like you and our unborn child could die.

How horribly fitting it could end like this after a year in waiting rooms? A grey parade of carpets and uncomfortable furniture that earlier looked set to end with us drowning in a sea of ashen faces. Now the room is wallpapered with uncertainty, but there’s hope.

It feels a lifetime ago, but the year started in this same building, though in circumstances far enough removed to require a visa. That room sizzled with the heat of Midsomer despite daffodils still hugging the ankles of the trees outside. It had rows and rows of empty seats, with my breakfast feeling like it could join them at any moment.

The news was mixed. A reckoning was coming. ‘Go away and think about it,’ he said as if all other decisions weren’t already fighting for the crumbs of our collective consciousness.We both knew, but neither of us wanted to say it.

The second waiting room was plusher. A coffee machine and a water cooler. You told me not to dare tweet about this. The prognosis was better this time. But it would come at a cost. Physically. Monetarily. More decisions, more waiting rooms. Ultimately though, it would be worth it.

It was. But it meant we had to keep returning to this second waiting room; white horses crashing over the reception every Wednesday morning at 8am. Week after week, month after month. You asked me to stop talking about the Producing Room. But it works. And we have one of the earliest baby photos imaginable to prove it. A bundle of cells just five days old. Our bundle of cells.

We’re back in the first waiting room a few weeks later. More portraits of tiny features. Everything looks good. This time we’re here for a blood scan that lets us know if our bundle of cells are are XX, XY, or whatever ever else nature might have in store. The person in front of you faints. She’s a household name, but she forgot to eat and now everyone is rushing around in flap to make sure she’s okay. She will be. We read about her baby months later.

And then there’s today. A third waiting room. We got here at 6am this morning. The heating has been switched off since the previous evening. They didn’t want us coming in. They told you it was a tummy bug, nothing to worry about. But you insisted. The A&E nurse is tired. She’s been on since yesterday evening. And she won’t listen to you. She scans the baby. Everything is fine. This is obviously in your head.

But you’re in too much pain to leave. Another nurse takes a closer look. Suggests it could be your appendix. They don’t treat that here. So you’re left in limbo. They send us to a room away from everyone. It’s so cold now you’re covered in three blankets, both our coats and my hat. Your lips turn purple.

The second nurse comes back. The blood tests won’t be processed because the once of the machines is out of order. The people who fix it won’t be back until Monday. But the pain killer really should have worked by now. If anything the pain is worse. She calls a consultant. She seems too young. But she listens. And she takes a closer look. Hushed conversations are taking place around us now. Worried tones. We’ve both been in hospitals when these conversations have engulfed us before. It never ends well.

They check you into a ward. They want to wait until Monday. Everything will be better on Monday. But the ward nurse has other ideas. She can see you’re getting worse. She runs after the surgeon. He’s going home. But she won’t let him. She tells him he has to see you. He relents.

“We wouldn’t normally do this,” he says after examining you. “But we’re going to have to operate.” The stakes are high. You tell me not to google the risks. But I can’t help myself. I prepare myself for the inevitable. We’re going to lose our child. I just have to hope that you make it through. It’s gone so far, that’s not guaranteed now either. As you go to theatre, they don’t insult me by telling me everything will be okay. A nurse checks on me once or twice. She asks me if I want toast. I can’t imagine ever eating again.

Despite often featuring together in our mind’s eye, there were 90 million years between when Stegosaurus plodded around and when Tyrannosaurus Rex ruled the earth. Your operation lasts longer. An infinite number of permutations have played out in my head since you went down. I’m writing this to distract myself. But the nurse is coming back now. Please, please, please let everything be okay. I’ll take another year of waiting rooms if it means I’m stuck in them with you.

Forever yours,

Steve