It’s odd to have a delivery scheduled. It’s literally pencilled into my calendar. On the 24th of February I know I am to show up at the hospital at 7.30 am and within an hour or two I will meet the being that has been growing inside me. Concerned friends ask me how I feel about a C-Section, and I’ve grown a bit tired of explaining that my medical history has predisposed me to one, that I trust the doctors because I witnessed how each one validated the other’s suspicions, and also because I’m using the public healthcare system so no one profits monetarily from the decision. I like that I will have to spend at least four days in the hospital and that I have the option of staying longer should I need to. I am training myself to be okay with asking for help, and relying on the midwives to assist me with my needs and those of our newborn. I’m mentally preparing for my partner not being allowed to visit for longer than one hour each day, and I’m counting on my previous experience of healing from surgery to enable my recovery from this one.

I veer between feelings of excitement and even an anticipation of what it might feel like to hear our child’s first cry and a sense of nervousness about how dramatically our life will change. How I might not be able to access the solitude upon which my writing practice is so dependent for a long time. There’s a finality to this decision that is unique and unprecedented. There is no going back.