Waiting For Their Babies To Live

One morning, like usual, I went into the dairy, warm and soothing, with the familiar rhythm of the breast pumps.

It was busy, but I didn’t recognise anyone. It made me feel like I didn’t belong there, even though I’d been in that room everyday for the past 6 weeks. The only face I recognised was hers, sitting in the corner, her usual spot. And just looking at her face, I knew.

The black butterfly on the doctor’s desk was for her daughter. She’d gone overnight. But she had still come into that room, and sat to pump milk for her survivor.

I didn’t have the courage to say anything. I was paralysed by fear. This could be me, in a few hours, days, weeks. So I sat and pumped. While the other mums chattered as if they weren’t in a hospital waiting for their babies to live or die, we sobbed onto our breasts.

I’ve never seen strength like hers that day. It still makes my skin prickle.