An unexpected circle

- Good morning

- Breakfast?

- Lunch?

- Dinner?

- Good night

Every day as a circle. It feels familiar in an awkward way. A couple of days into my new life with home care, safety alarm and night patrol I felt like I’ve been through this before. Like there is something being recycled. People opening my door, bringing me something and off they are. Closing my door at night leaving me to myself. The whole thing with lying flat, not being able to move, people I don’t know coming and going. Myself in a bubble of holding up. Every bit of energy put into surviving. Seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months. Don’t be nice to me because if I start crying I will loose it.

And yes, I’ve been here before. 25 years ago. Although in a very different setting.

I was pregnant, expecting my second child. I was a little more than half way through my pregnancy, 25 weeks, when the contractions started. This was right after Christmas, and a Christmas present I wasn’t wishing for. At the hospital it became clear it was serious. The tiny baby was already in the birth canal - I hope that’s the accurate word; my vocabulary when it comes to this subject is limited. And I was promptly ordered to lie down. To stay at the hospital and lie down. This was 1988, and it was way too early to save a child at 25 weeks, if born. So every day I could keep the baby would be beneficial.

It was bad. And what made it even worse was the baby back at the house that was too young to understand what was going on. Why his mom was gone. Trouble 1 was 1 year and 8 months when I suddenly disappeared.

My home for the following months was the maternity ward. The world was already white when this happened, but inside me it was black. The contractions continued although I did everything right. Lied down 24-7. The labor could start any minute any time; my fear was constant and legitimate. The snow fell outside my window as frequent as the contractions, every single day. Day after day, contractions and fear, night after night, second by second. The ward front desk was right outside my room, and for three months I could hear babies arriving from the delivery room, happy parents saying good-bye and thank you as they could go home with their new family member after a few days. While I was watching the snow, holding up. To keep my baby. One more day.

Trouble 1 and his dad came to visit every other day. Moments I cherished although in sadness cause soon they would be gone again. I knew Trouble 1 was safe with his dad. But I worried about me and my firstborn son’s relationship. Yes, we did see each other often, but in an unfamiliar and strange environment, and I wasn’t at home. I wasn’t there in the morning and I wasn’t there to tuck him in. I was tied up in that bed and I couldn’t play with him. We always had to say goodbye, he stopped calling for me and pappa (dad) was his most frequent word.

So, I was fighting for my two babies, one at home and one inside me. Meanwhile people were walking in and out of my room. In and out of my existence. The weeks passed as the contractions continued. A constant scare. No sleep. In the Eighties the idea was that the child was in the same state of mind as the mother. So, not only did I have to worry about going into labor too early, but to transfer my panic and darkness to this poor baby.

28 weeks. The prognosis was looking better. 30. The doctors were amazed about me still keeping the baby inside me. 32. I myself had earlier been working in the neonatal ward, therefore I knew what it was like continuing the pregnancy in an incubator, hooked up to all kinds of life saving equipments. 34. Almost there. 36. That’s when a pregnancy is counted as full time, and I finally was allowed to move home.

I don’t have words for what it was like. I had spent the months between Christmas and Easter in jail and now I was let out. The light was back outside and inside. My house was totally snowed in and I felt absolutely safe with my husband and our son. At home finally. My home.

A week after, Trouble 2 was born. A little boy completely at peace with himself, the world and me. We used to call him Lucky Luke when he grew up, because of his contentment with most everything. And in a week he will be home for Christmas from Paris where he lives now. Still content and lucky. So much for those Eighties predictions, thanks God.

It’s snowing outside most everyday here in Sweden, just as it did 25 years ago. It will be a storybook Christmas when it comes to exterior. And life is making a circle. A young couple, close and dear relatives of mine are expecting their first child. It is supposed to be a May baby, born when life is returning to the 63^rd latitude after winter hibernation, at the time birches are turning a transparent magic green. But contractions have already started. Way way way too early. And I wish that I could tell them that everything will be all right. That the story will have a happy ending, as the one 25 years ago had. But right now it’s one minute at a time. One hour. One day. And hopefully it will turn to weeks. As many as needed.

As for myself I still hate hospitals. So even with my worst back pain the plain thought of going there makes me prefer anything else. I’ve had 27 different people in my house these last three weeks. It’s not fun, but I got to be home. And hey, it’s just me and the pain.  Reliving my Trouble 2 Lucky Luke brooding through my current condition and this young couple makes me feel the circle. And that I am actually quite lucky too.