The day that you began was also the day that you nearly ended. Everything was normal. Until it was not. Everyone was calm. Until they weren’t. You were fine. Until you weren’t.
“We are going to ring the alarm now.” The midwife said, telling me to stay calm and not panic. But I panicked.
I panicked because I couldn’t hear you. Your cries had gone silent. And I panicked because I couldn’t see you. I did not know if I would ever see your face.
So the alarm rang, and the doctors ran. And machines beeped and I lay still and cried. I couldn’t move to see you. I was trapped, listening to that alarm.
And even though three months have gone by. Even though they cheered and told me you were okay. Even though I no longer hold you and see a sick baby covered in wires looking back at me, I can still hear it.
I can still hear that damn alarm ringing, and the voice in my head that started screaming at me that you wouldn’t live hasn’t stopped. You live, you breathe, you thrive, you are healthy but the voice still shouts at me. The alarm still rings. Telling me I need to be scared, to accept that I will lose you.
Lauren and The Rainbows 