It had been forty hours since I’d slept. I lay still, despite the pain in my back. My skin itched underneath the tape that covered my epidural site, and my stomach and legs ached. I wanted to roll over onto my side and sleep, but was scared that the coarse sheets would rustle, and the rubber mattress would squeak. And that would wake the baby.
The baby, my baby, was only thirteen hours old. When I had told my husband to go home and rest, I had been full of painkillers and euphoria, eager to spend the first night with my new daughter. But now the anaesthesia had worn off, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted.
I slowly lifted one heavy leg, crossed it over the other, then shifted my hips to turn over. I paused. The baby snuffled, grunted, then made a sound like a cough. I froze.
My eyes filled with tears, and I bit my lip to stop myself from swearing. Maybe she would stop and go back to sleep. I’d fed her only an hour ago. But her cries got louder and shriller until I was sure she would wake every other baby on the ward. I couldn’t hear any other infants crying; it was only my baby.
I tried to swing my legs over the side of the bed without pulling out the catheter that hooked me to the bed. I leaned forwards and lifted the baby out of the bassinette, then held her to me. Her scarlet face glared out at me underneath a pink hand-knitted hat, still too big for her. I held her tight as I sat on the edge of the bed and bounced up and down. She opened her mouth and shook her head from side to side, but soon, she was quiet. I managed to lie back down on the bed without disturbing her. This was the way I thought it should be: we were together, we were calm, and we were as close as we’d been only thirteen hours ago, before the umbilical cord had been cut.