Letter to Louis Read online

  Three months before you were conceived I turned thirty, Greg was thirty-one. On that day I stared at my face in the bathroom mirror and felt a wave of sadness. Life was fun but where were my children? What was I doing at this age having none?

  But you were still a surprise of sorts. We’d been planning on travelling around the world. I’d never travelled far but had always craved to. I’d been sensible, studying, working, trying to build a career in landscape architecture, knowing that one day I would want children. If we don’t go now before children we never will, I had thought. And Greg was convinced he was infertile. No reason why but it was something he had always said to me.

  *

  We’d agreed to go for it, go travelling.

  ‘Let’s shag around the world,’ Greg had said. ‘If it’s going to happen it may take a while.’

  Well, it didn’t. It didn’t take more than one try.

  ‘That’s our plan scuppered,’ I’d laughed.

  Greg seemed to walk taller that day I told him.

  *

  Two days after the midwives’ visit, on the eve before you were born, we’d sat on the sofa playing that favourite game of expectant parents: What shall we call the baby? We were calling out names backwards and forwards.

  ‘Dexter?’

  ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Baxter?’

  ‘Monty?’

  ‘That’s hideous!’ Greg had exclaimed. He had an aversion to any name with a public school ring. He liked the idea of a jazz musician in my womb.

  ‘What about Louis?’ I said. It had a soft ring but strength to it too. ‘It means “fighter”, in the book.’

  ‘I quite like that one.’

  Who knows what we would have called you if you had been born as you should have been eight weeks later.

  You’ll need to be a fighter, is what I’d thought the next day.

  *

  That night I’d bent over suddenly as I got into bed. A sharp pain stabbed in my belly and I’d bent onto all fours.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I just got a pain. It’s subsiding now.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the curry I made for you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Greg, I’m still not feeling right and I feel anxious.’

  ‘Why don’t you say something at the antenatal class tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I was just thinking that. I think I will.’

  I lay on the bed and waited to feel you move. You gave me a kick, not a flutter. That made me feel pleased, that was my number twelve. But I’d decided: tomorrow morning I’d go up to the hospital and ask again. I felt a sense of relief. I was sure I was making a fuss about nothing but I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting another two weeks to be seen. I’d always felt well so this was unusual. I kept thinking of John – he’d left his mole for too long without going to the doctor. Was I worrying unnecessarily? I didn’t want to call Jessie again. I’d decided I’d go against her instructions and double check with someone else at the hospital just to be sure.

  That night I had a nightmare. I dreamt of a baby in my arms but the baby didn’t look like a baby. It was a child but not a normal-looking child either. It was long, very long and thin – no, scrawny. Its arms hung down from its body and its legs stuck out past my waist. It had reddish hair, and small sharp teeth. I had held it stretched out in my arms away from my body. I could feel its weight and was staring at it horrified. It was looking up at me with a knowing stare. ‘Well,’ I’d whispered, ‘seeing as you can talk what do you want me to call you?’ A grating robotic voice had replied, ‘Oliver.’

  *

  When you were lifted out later that day the doctor had asked, ‘So do you have a name?’ ‘Oliver’ screeched through my mind. ‘Louis,’ I answered. I’m so glad I named you that, I say your name over and over and it always sounds right.

  At the hospital I decided to speak to Dee, the physio running the second part of the antenatal class. The midwife before her had seemed a little bit wet. I’d held back from telling her, thinking she might tell me not to worry and ask when I’d last been seen. Dee, however, seemed efficient; her manner was caring but direct. Her class that week involved breathing techniques during labour. I’d lain on a mat and steadied my breathing, taking deep breaths like she told us to do. I was waiting to feel your first movement that day.

  ‘I’m feeling a little bit worried about my pregnancy.’

  ‘Oh dear, my dear, what’s worrying you?’

  ‘Well, I’m worried about my size. My stomach looks small; I don’t feel like it’s been growing. I look so much smaller than everyone else in the class today.’

  Dee looked down at my stomach.

  ‘Yes, you do look small, I agree.’

  ‘And I’ve not been feeling well recently either. I’ve been having headaches and my vision seems blurred.’

  ‘Okay dear, have you been seen recently?’

  I felt hot. Tears sprang into my eyes again. This really isn’t like me. I panicked inside; if I answer ‘three days ago’ will she still check me? I didn’t answer her question but continued.

  ‘And it’s not just that. The movements from the baby feel different, lighter and less frequent. And now I’m starting to feel really anxious because I’ve not had a movement yet today.’

  ‘When did you last have one?’

  ‘Last night as I was going to bed. I had a pain, a short sharp pain that went away and then I got a kick afterwards, but I’ve not felt anything since.’

  ‘Wait here. I’m going to go and see if I can arrange for you to have a scan. I’m sure you’re fine but let’s just put your mind at rest.’

  She left me in an empty waiting room beside the scanning room. I helped myself to water from a dispensing machine on my right; I’d been told it was good to drink before a scan. I’d not had a scan since the official one at twelve weeks and I suddenly felt rather buoyant as I waited. Everything will be absolutely fine and I won’t need to worry any more. Eventually I heard a key in a lock. A nurse had opened the door and motioned me in.

  She was very short and had a hunch. Her voice was high and gentle.

  ‘Hello, dear. Just pop yourself up onto the bed. Dee tells me you’re feeling a little bit anxious today, not had much movement? Let’s have a quick look to check everything is okay.’

  The nurse pulled paper sheeting across the bed as she spoke.

  She squeezed jelly onto my belly. It was wet and cold.

  ‘Now I’ll just run this over your stomach and take a quick look, find the heartbeat. Ah, there it is.’

  She moved the rounded probe over and around my belly; at times crosses appeared on the monitor screen as she measured you.

  Can I tell if you are a boy or a girl?

  ‘Actually, dear, I’d like you to move across to this other machine over here; it’s more detailed. I’m just going to get Dr O’Hara.’

  *

  They leaned in together, studying the monitor screen.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Dr O’Hara paused from the hushed discussion and turned to me. She was petite, slender and seemed terribly astute. She had stridden into the room and straight up to the screen. She was clearly in charge, but her manner was pleasant and she had a soft smile and warm eyes.

  ‘We are just trying to work that out and I need to concentrate, then I will discuss things with you.’

  *

  I sat up on the bed and pulled my top back down over my belly, still sticky from the gel.

  ‘We need to keep you in. Your baby is small for its dates; there is the possibility of an abruption, we couldn’t be sure. I’m going to instruct that you are given steroids immediately; these will take effect over the next forty-eight hours. We’ll get your blood pressure taken and a CTG monitor on you, but the aim will be to deliver within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’ll call for the community midwife, ask her to come and explain things further and take you down to the ward.’

  ‘Shall I go home
and get my things?’

  She looked startled.

  ‘No, you are being admitted straight away.’

  The needle went into my shoulder.

  ‘That’s the steroids done. Now let’s get you up on the bed.’

  Jelly was placed on my belly again and two patches attached. The monitor started to bleep. The nurse slid a band up my arm and I felt it inflate. Her head was tilted down facing her lap and she was silent. The cuff deflated on my arm and her head shot up and she stared at me.

  She was up on her feet.

  ‘I’m just going to find a doctor.’

  *

  I was propped up on a hospital bed. I was wearing a hospital gown and it was pulled up to expose my stomach. A light sheet was over me covering my bareness. The ward was quiet. A curtain had been pulled around my cubicle although there was no one next to me on either side. I could hear the comforting bleep of the monitor, your heart, and see the white line as it squiggled across the screen. There was another line crossing it too. What’s that one for?

  The nurse returned with a doctor. This one was tall with thick brown hair flowing down to her shoulders and an intelligent, serious air. She looked at the monitor, and lifted up the paper trace with the angry lines.

  ‘Have you had bleeding down below?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘No. I had a stabbing pain last night around midnight, lasting around a minute then it went away.’

  ‘What about movements?’

  ‘That’s what’s been worrying me. They’ve reduced recently, but I’ve had none today.’

  ‘I’m sending you straight up to the delivery suite. The trace is concerning and your blood pressure is dangerously high. We need to get it under control, check your bloods. As soon as we can we will deliver you.’

  ‘When were you last seen?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  The doctor had his back to me. He was muscular and imposing with an arrogant air, but he seemed rather flustered.

  ‘Can you believe it! She was seen three days ago and they did not take her blood pressure.’

  He slammed the file down, came over to me, knocked my knees.

  ‘Look, she’s hyper-reflexive; she might fit at any moment. Where are the results of those blood tests? Start the emergency protocol now.’

  I have daydreams of what we will do together when you leave hospital. I picture us standing in Kelvingrove Park, the autumn leaves falling around us. I’m holding your hand, the sun is beaming, your blond hair is shining, your red wellington boots are gleaming. You’re stamping your feet, up and down, up and down, splashing around in the puddles.

  It is early December and there is sparkling frost on the ground outside. This is a milestone moment, the time you were meant to be born; instead you are eight weeks old and the doctors’ round is underway. I pause in the corridor at the top of the ward by the notice board. Two long sections of wall space are dedicated to displaying messages and photographs of babies who’ve been in this unit. ‘Billy sends love to all the doctors and nurses on his third birthday.’ And Billy beams out from the photograph with chocolate cake smeared over his face. ‘Here’s Senga taking her first steps,’ says another as a petite red-haired girl steps forward in the photograph. And there are photographs placed next to these ones sent in of them as babies in here. I recognise a couple of the nurses, they look younger, smiling out towards the camera, the parents beside them, the baby clothed and wrapped up ready to go home.

  My heart rises as I dream of the day that I’ll send in your picture. I imagine the day we leave, carrying you out of this hospital unit for good, waving goodbye to the nurses as the camera snaps. I picture taking your photograph aged three, a boy with golden curls like my brother and a cheeky grin. You’re bombing about on your trike, whizzing around the trees in the park, scaring those squirrels. And I picture myself sitting down at my desk to write my letter of thanks, taking you down the road to the post box, lifting you up to drop the letter in.

  I steel myself, look across to the memoriam board. It also has photos but only of babies, cards of remembrance, poems. All dreams have been shattered. That little one didn’t make it. My heart constricts. He lasted so long. He looks a little like you.

  *

  I see the doctors leaving the ward. I move away from the notice board and head down the corridor past the main intensive care room. I glance through the glass wall towards the row of incubators where you lay a few weeks ago. Some of the little ones move their arms in the air as if in a womb, as if they are floating. I find it mesmerising to see, although I don’t stop and stare. Remember the rules: you must look only at your own baby.

  Your arms floated briefly when your arm splints were removed, the ventilator gone. They lifted up into the air and moved in a slow-motion wave. Today when I reach you, you’ve tucked your hand under your head and have a contented look as you sleep. You are starting to look like you’re not in a womb any more. Today you look like a baby, a special baby-unit baby.

  *

  All of the babies in here have a certain look. Their heads elongated, their faces and foreheads long and thin; the soft bones of their skull squashed by the weight of their brains as they lie positioned sideways in their incubators. The nurses change your position a number of times each day but you still have the look, and Ludo has it too. Ludo lies opposite in his own special room. The rooms are small glass boxes, big enough to hold an incubator and a chair. Both of your lids are off now, they’ve become beds that hold you as you grow. You have a virus. You’ve caught it in the hospital somehow but it doesn’t seem to be affecting you. The doctors aren’t worried but they don’t want it to spread, not to the more vulnerable ones in here.

  I don’t know why Ludo is in his room. You’ve been in here a week now and I’ve begun to smile at Ludo’s mother. We acknowledge each other, neither of us asking any questions, though. Ludo’s room has an abundance of soft toys positioned around his bed and well-wishing cards stuck to the glass walls of his room. Today his room looks different. Today there are lots of balloons and both parents sit by his side.

  Three of the main nurses have appeared outside Ludo’s room; one holds something in her hand.

  ‘A hundred days old today, Ludo.’

  You are forty days behind.

  ‘Here is your special certificate.’

  ‘Ludo is now an honorary member of our especially special hundred club.’

  Ludo lies with his eyes closed. He has a calm look on his squashed face as if he has peaceful dreams.

  *

  One week later, Ludo’s room is empty. No parents, no cards, no teddies, no incubator. There was no warning.

  ‘Where’s Ludo gone – has he moved rooms?’

  The nurse looks sad.

  ‘He’s at rest, poor wee thing. Unfortunately, there are some in here that we just know won’t ever be going home.’

  Dr Nook rushes down the corridor. He’s always rushing by. He spots me and stops.[

  ‘Ah, just to say we’ve got the genetic tests back. They have come back as normal – his chromosomes are complete. He’s a normal boy, just as I thought.’

  It is mid-December and Dr Thompson is listening to your heart.

  ‘Nope, not a sound. I think I can safely say it has closed.’

  His face breaks into a wide grin, his crescent-shaped eyes have a twinkle.

  ‘Some of the younger doctors in here call me old-fashioned but it just shows that sometimes patience and waiting can be the best way, especially given the odds we were faced with for Louis.’

  He places the stethoscope into the large pocket of his white coat.

  ‘Now that the valve has closed Louis should make much quicker progress. We can now increase his feeds, get some weight on him, work towards you taking him home.’

  My heart soars. This is the first time that home has been mentioned.

  ‘It would be preferable if we could get Louis off the oxygen
before that happens; he’s become dependent – this can happen. Sometimes it can take a long time before they are ready to cope without it and if this is so we have to send them home still using it. You’ll need training, equipment and bottles. I’ll arrange for you to be shown what it entails.’

  *

  I’ve been watching your oxygen levels for weeks before this latest news. A probe is touching your toe, held there with Velcro. Its rounded glass glows red and your toe does too. Occasionally it comes loose when you move and needs to be repositioned back onto your toe.

  ‘It really needs to be at least ninety-five per cent, a hundred per cent is what we are after.’

  A clear plastic tube with two prongs runs into your nose. The tube wraps around both sides of your face and is held there with tape. The two ends wrap together behind your head and lead away out of the incubator to the oxygen tank.

  I’ve watched the nurses checking the monitor, tweaking the levels flowing down your nose, writing it on the clip board. Sometimes they are able to reduce the quantity of oxygen, turn the dial to allow a little bit less when you’ve reached the magic hundred on the machine and then sometimes they need to add a little bit more when you dip below ninety-five. An alarm triggers immediately whenever it dips below ninety. Then a nurse appears quickly, checks and increases the flow, waits to see you stabilise. The alarm has been triggering less and less as the weeks have gone by. Now it hardly comes on at all. You are stable, hovering on ninety-five on a very low flow.

  ‘He’s nearly there, I’ll try again.’

  Susan lowers the level down to a trickle. You must panic. Your numbers drop and she turns it back up again. The skin-to-skin contact is helping. Whenever I can I lift you and lie you belly down onto my bare chest, feel the shared warmth of our skins, and your levels rise instantly up to a hundred and the nurse passing by tries again to reduce the oxygen bit by bit.