I was both desperate for it to be over and dreading it in equal measure. When the day came, we were taken to a special part of the maternity wing, far from the other labouring women and bassinets full of gurgling, healthy babies. A doctor — another doctor — smeared something on my cervix at regular intervals to kick-start my labour. My sister was there at the beginning. A friend came with a bag full of maxi-pads and breast shields for my milk. A basket of flowers arrived.
The nurse whisked our baby away. She took her to the next room, one that had a big Do Not Enter sign taped to the door. She was washing her, and dressing her, and taking photographs. I doubt every hospital does that, but this one did. Then she brought her to us to hold. Eventually I passed her to him. “Little angel,” he said softly, stroking her cheek, then, angrily, “Her head looks fine to me.”We held her for a while, I don’t remember how long. The nurse took her back to Do Not Enter and brought us a sturdy white envelope embellished with cursive script that said “Special Memories.
Losing Maya changed me. It changed me for always. I know people say they were transformed on “a cellular level,” and that sounds so cliché, but that’s really what it was like. It was as if her absence was chiselled into my chest. I was a different person afterwards. And so, I know, was Jason. While my friends circled with casseroles and cards and sent me long emails, his good friends — all men — did the only thing they knew how to do. They took him drinking. “They’re useless,” Jason said.