Her head looked shrivelled, somehow dessicated. She had electrodes fitted to her scalp, tubes and drips from every orifice, her eyes were bandaged against the light.

I wanted to drag everything away from her, every bit of machinery, to pick her up and hold her to my breast, even if it meant that she died in a few minutes. That would be better than having to suffer this—the pain, fear, noise, bewilderment, being surrounded and handled by strangers. At that moment, I did not see the medical staff as saviours, as people who were caring for my baby and trying to save her life; I saw them as aggressors, tormentors, people who had taken by baby away from me and were doing terrible things to her, who were keeping her from me. I was filled with anger and hurt on her behalf.

To a certain extent, I never got over that anger. It was an instinct, deep, irrational, passionate. She was being hurt, and for what? For the best? I wondered. I still do wonder.

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