Is he mine?

He was not mine. He was somebody else’s baby.

I said I love you to baby boy but didn’t mean it. I didn’t feel it. How was I supposed to believe this baby wheeled over to me all neatly wrapped in a blanket was mine. Slowly my grip on reality began to slip. I stared at him next to me and I thought he didn’t look right. Something was wrong with him. He has Downs Syndrome. His toes don’t look right. I consult Dr Google.

I start to think the nurses on the ward hate me and blame me for the birth going wrong. The nurse who told me off for eating something- she hated me. The doctor who was sat at the foot of the bed when I was in labour waiting to take blood from my baby boy inside of me, she hated me. I remember her stern face looking at me.

All these thoughts swirled around in my head but I kept quiet. I didn’t mention it to anyone, not even my husband. Why? I don’t know.

On my medical notes that we sneaked a peep at, it was circled how much blood I lost (they kept the IV line in incase I needed a blood transfusion) and traumatic birth was circled. Reflecting back now, I was anaemic, still had anaesthetic in me, had post-pregnancy hormones ravaging my blood and I had just been through a traumatic birth. Thinking clearly was not possible. My birth experience was now fragmented pieces of pain and trauma. The baby was mine but not mine.