One cold wet day in December 1983 a nurse handed me a tiny little bundle wrapped in a green blanket. All that I could see was a tiny fist sticking out but oh it didn’t matter, he was here.
Three months earlier when I was 28 weeks pregnant I had gone for a routine antenatal check-up in the Rotunda. I sat there with not a care in the world. That changed quickly. The doctor announced that there was a chance I might be in labour. I would have to be admitted. Looking back now I realise that the naivety of my 22-year-old self stood me in good stead over the next few months. It turned out I was not in labour. I had a potentially life-threatening condition that meant I was staying put until the baby was born.
[ Read all Fighting Words contributions hereOpens in new window ]
The days were long, the nights were scary. My head filled with unwanted thoughts of what might happen to my little baby. Other patients came and went, some with good outcomes and some with dreadfully sad endings to their hopes and dreams. I was afraid to dream of a happy ending, afraid to knit baby cardigans or make the blanket I had planned to have ready to bring my baby home. Many a dark winter’s night I stood at the window bawling crying, looking down on to Parnell Street to see my husband waving up at me while on his tea break from his job in Abbey Street.
I was not allowed to leave the ward to attend prenatal classes on the floor below as it was deemed a health and safety risk, but I was allowed to go to the chapel every Sunday for Mass which wasn’t deemed to be any risk at all. On December 15th, they told me I would be induced the next day. I skipped back to the ward (well as much as any nine months pregnant woman who hadn’t seen the light of day or had any fresh air for three months can skip) and announced to the patient in the next bed: “It will be all over tomorrow.”
Protestant churches face a day of reckoning with North’s inquiry into mother and baby homes
Pat Leahy: Smart people still insist the truth of a patent absurdity – that Gerry Adams was never in the IRA
The top 25 women’s sporting moments of the year: 25-6 revealed with Mona McSharry, Rachael Blackmore and relay team featuring
Former Tory minister Steve Baker: ‘Ireland has been treated badly by the UK. It’s f**king shaming’
This lady had all the wisdom of being 40 and the mother of a few children. “No it won’t, love,” she said. “It will be only starting.”
I have thought of her many times over the last 40 years. The next day dawned and at 5.30 that evening I was handed the little green blanket. That blanket held all my dreams, all my love and my future.
The Words of Love project started one morning with a chat in the foyer of the Fighting Words centre in Dublin. Two Fighting Words mentors were talking about the world needing a little more love as they waited for the children to arrive for their workshop. This germ of an idea was developed and writers of all ages were approached to share their thoughts and experiences of love in all its forms; the result was a small, beautiful collection launched on April 14th. Here are a few pieces by participants from the Silverthread writing group who responded to the challenge of capturing the essence of love in words. You can find out more about Words of Love and read more pieces from the project on the Fighting Words website.on the Fighting Words website.
