General

With each contraction came a pain that dominated Anna's entire being. In those moments, for those seconds that stretched into infinity, there was nothing else. She could hear screaming from other rooms, yet she made no sound at all. When the pain passed it was only for a minute or so and she breathed with closed eyes, unwilling to re-engage with life outside of her own body. The room might as well have been empty for all the awareness she had, and when they did talk, touch, gain her attention she found it so hard. To reply she had to find herself from the deepest recess of her own mind and drag herself forward, to use her voice, open her eyes. The midwife was telling her that is was time, time to push. With a guttural grunt she did so and was told to stop, one was enough. She felt the baby crowning, the hot stretching of flesh and held her breath. Without any further effort the baby slid into the hands of the midwife. There was elation, a girl at last, and in seconds she was there, nascent eyes opening, mouth rooting for milk.

General

The pain of labour was a prison for her mind. In that jail cell of fear and confusion the time passed without her being able to keep track. Her stomach tightened, she heard her own scream without being aware of making it. She lay still as the medication was administered, waiting for the agony to subside. In times to come she'd forget these moments as effectively as formatting a hard-drive, but always she'd recall the love she felt for her baby, her precious child, one born in perfect love.

General

When the labour began the pain was more intense than anything Charlotte had ever imagined. Nothing could be more brutal, not whips or chains. The room was only the bed and four walls, her helpers melting into the background as if they weren't even there. Is there anything more isolating than intense pain? Doesn't pain lock us in as effectively as any prison? After, when her child was born, it was as if only sunshine existed the world, as if all the earth was ushered into harmony. She looked into those new eyes, a new consciousness, perfect and reaching out for her love. In that instant she knew she would do anything to protect her child, that her love was as vast as the universe yet solid as rock. She was a mother and would always be.

General

...Anyway, Dakota is an adult, in her late twenties now, and expecting her first child any minute, her labour is advanced and she’s in considerable pain. Keep looking out of the window, I’ve moved the house close to the hospital for the next twenty minutes, in that time you will decide if she and the baby live or die. We’ll see her very soon. There she is! She’s so different. Her hair is shorter, darker, but that could be the rain. Her dress is no match against the frigid onslaught, the fabric is beating in the gale like a weather-worn flag. Her steps are faltering on the path, they are short, almost like a doll with stiff legs. Though her belly is large she’s still skinny really, undernourished. She must be in a great deal of pain to walk like that. From her face I can tell she’s fighting hard to regulate her breathing. Do you see her feet? The sneakers look quite new but they’re too large, her ankles are swollen with edema. When the contractions come she doubles over. Hang on, there’s some new information coming in... The baby is breech and stuck, she also has placenta previa. Dakota needs help in the next twenty minutes or she won’t make it. No. Don’t try to open the door, you aren’t part of her story. You’ll get the chance to help her soon though, I promise...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, March 17, 2015.

Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by Daisy.

General

Dakota is almost at the aluminium frame of the hospital; look, a porter is coming out with a wheelchair and she’s in. But wait, that’s not the end of it. We’ll fast forward fifteen minutes, that’s all they’ll take to discover she has no health insurance. There, the porter is wheeling her out again. Look, you can see her. You can hear her too. She’s screaming like her guts are being ripped out with a blunt instrument even against this terrible wind that threatens to rip the limbs from the trees, especially the young ones. In five minutes she and the will baby die. I’m going to give you the price of saving her life in cash, the price the hospital needs to cover her expenses and you can either keep it or take it in there and save them both. I know you want the money right now so you can run out into that storm and save them but there is some information you need first. We have three envelopes to open here. Let’s see what is in the first one...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, March 17, 2015.

Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by Daisy.