They say that the mother’s mood during the pregnancy, as well as the way she lives those nine months physically, can have a profound effect on the baby. It is no surprise to me that my boy has some emerging issues now that he is getting older. I am determined to work with him to confront these issues and I spend a good deal of time talking to friends, listening to experts and reading helpful literature in order to try to understand the best ways to support him. I also know the importance of considering the root causes of these issues, and there are a few things that I am sure will have contributed to his hypersensitivity, anxiety and issues with self-regulation.​

 

When I was 18 weeks pregnant with Diego, I had a really severe panic attack - you know, the ones where you are certain you are going to have a heart attack and die in the next few moments, but then that moment goes on and on without you being able to rationalise that it can’t be anything but impending doom. And this one lasted hours and hours, so those next moments seemed never to end.

 

​When it hit me, it came like a bolt from nowhere, but I have tried to work back to understand the roots of this pyroclastic surge. From the day I knew I was pregnant again, my brain would frequently spiral: I didn’t know how we were going to support another child. In fact, I didn’t know how we were managing to support two children. In fact, let’s be honest about this, I didn’t know how I was managing to support two children, as well as offering some support where possible to Julianna, our eldest, who was now at university.

 

I was the only one working. In fact, let’s be even more honest about this, I was supporting three children at home, the third being in his late thirties.

 

This anxiety and frustration would play on loop whenever I wasn’t fully distracted by work or attending to the needs of the children, so the build up was inevitable. I knew that I was eventually only going to be getting statutory maternity pay and couldn’t rely on him to be working regularly. I had no idea how we were going to stay on top of everything. I worried about this every single day, the anxiety rising when I had to do the weekly shop or buy a new pair of school shoes. Or when Richie would come home with fucking nonsense - a new jacket, a new (and unnecessary) toaster for the kitchen that wouldn’t even fucking fit on the kitchen counter - paid for on a credit card. My credit card. Linked to my bank account and paid solely by me.

​

​At the time I was working three days each week, Monday to Wednesday, in order to make sure I was able to do my job as a mother properly. When my eldest daughter was born, we had the good fortune to be close to friends who had also just had a child and we were able to help each other out with reciprocal childcare arrangements. I also had the first three months off completely and allowed a gradual return to work. By the time Jack arrived on the scene, however, that friendship had soured because of an incident involving Richie and the father  - more on that later - and the company I worked for had been bought out and were offering less flexible terms for returning mums. So I went back to work full time after only two months as we needed the money, but the emotional burden was devastating. I couldn’t bear to leave Jack at the daycare centre and cried regularly, every day, for months on end. The guilt was unbearable. What I was doing felt totally unnatural, wrong even. This time I would do it differently, I told myself.

 

​But soon enough, times were getting so tough financially that something had to be done. Richie was working odd jobs, cash in hand, though I was never told in detail what these jobs entailed, nor did I see a great deal of money. Every so often, he’d drop notes on the kitchen table, amounts ranging from £20 to £60, and say, without irony, “that’s for you,” as if I should be grateful for his generosity. ​

​

In order to supplement the income I had from my work, I eventually took a part-time job cleaning a large house owned by a Spanish telecommunications company which was used for company employees visiting their UK offices. A friend who worked for them had initially called me up to see if I knew anyone in the local Spanish-speaking community who might be interested in taking on the job. It would be part-time with fairly flexible working hours and cash in hand. Given the situation we were in, I thought I might as well do it myself. I ran the idea past Richie and, of course, he actively encouraged it.

​​

​Initially, I started to work there every Friday afternoon for three hours. It was a big house and actually quite pleasant to be there. I would start each shift at the top of the residence and carefully make my way down to the bottom. I took a good deal of pride in making such a lovely house look its best. I have to confess, I like cleaning. Well, perhaps not actively like, but when I start, I’m on a mission, and I love to walk around my own place after a good clean and let a calmness wash over me as I survey the order and the sparkle! So, for me, this place was like a palace! Three stories, large, tall rooms, bathrooms on each level, marble floors. I loved the final walk around once I’d finished, sensing the pleasure those staying there would feel on walking back in after hard day’s work to find their place spick and span!​

​​

As more people came to stay at the house on a more regular basis, I was able to recruit the services of a friend to come and join and help as the job was becoming too much for one person to do in a short afternoon window. Those staying there would often throw parties or have formal dinners on behalf of the company and I was asked if I’d be interested in providing table service duties for these events too. I was keen at first, not only for the money, but for the fact that it was an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours in the evening and essentially force Richie to spend some time with his children. As I was earning more, much-needed money, there was little he could say in protest. ​

​​

The evenings were fun to host. I was able to bring in a couple of friends to help serve, as well as organising the timings for the evening. I loved the planning aspect and took great pride in this work too. We were often praised for our friendly and professional approach, so much so that we were recommended to others hosting similar parties and, before long, we were in such high demand that I had to start turning down offers, partly because I needed to spend quality time with the kids - I would frequently come home to find Richie asleep on the couch, with the kids having taken themselves off to bed - but also partly because the work was exhausting me. I had to take a step back. I was 18 weeks pregnant.​

​​​

Following an unremarkable day at my normal job one Monday, I packed up and left with Dianne, a colleague and friend who would give me a lift much of the way home to a spot where I could easily jump out and walk the final stretch. On this particular day, Jack had gone from school to the house of some family friends and Stephanie, my youngest daughter, was with the paternal grandparents who lived a short walk from our house. Dianne had offered to pick up Jack on the way so as to save me the hassle later on and so I began directing her. The roads were busy and the noise of the traffic seemed to be swelling, giving me the sense almost that it was a single, oppressive entity engulfing us with malicious intent. ​

​​

“Where here? Left?” I heard Dianne inquire, clearly not for the first time, as I emerged from what seemed like another dimension and immediately felt a wave rush over, and indeed through, my body.  The world seemed to close in on me, narrowing my perspective to just what was directly in front of me. ​

​​

“Jeez, are you OK?” I heard Dianne say, though it sounded muffled. I couldn't see her or any of my periphery at all. And that was it. I knew that I was having a heart attack and began hyperventilating.​

​​

Dianne must have pulled into a side street because the next thing I remember, we were stationary and, from what I could see in front of me, we were no longer on a main road. Slowly, my peripheral vision returned. We were parked outside a house I didn’t recognise. Dianne was holding my hand and I think it was the approach of her other hand towards my forehead that had snapped me back into some semblance of reality.

​​

​My breathing had slowed.​

​​

“I think you just had a moment there!” Dianne said with a nervous chuckle. I nodded in agreement, unable - in fact too frightened - to utter anything resembling speech.​

​

We remained in silence for a good few minutes, Dianne squeezing my hand gently and running her hand over my forehead and through the hair on the top of my head which gradually soothed me. ​

​​

Somehow, by sheer luck, we had pulled into a street which backed onto the rear end of the building where Jack was staying. I knew I couldn’t go up the stairwell and collect him so I called Grace, who was looking after him, and explained that I’d just had a bit of a dizzy spell and could she send Jack down to the car via the back door of the building. She asked if she should come down, but I didn’t want any further fuss, so I just told her to send him down and not to say anything to him, just that I was in a bit of a hurry.

​​

​Jack arrived, but without any knowledge or therefore concern for what had just taken place and he got into the back seat and started talking about his day. Within seconds of him starting, his words turned to white noise and I felt myself slipping back into a world of panic. I reached into my bag for a banana, convinced that this was a low blood sugar thing and that a quick fix would soon sort me out. But once I had the first bite in my mouth and began the unbearably laborious process of chewing what seemed to be extraordinarily dense flesh, I felt a sharp rush of something warm yet chilling flow through my entire being, piercing my spine and then my lungs. Jack had clearly asked me something as I could make out two words repeating over and over as an echo: “Mum? When? When, mum? Mum? Mum? When?”. I wanted him to stop but was incapable of saying anything, my mouth clogged with banana and my body now seemingly paralysed. The words echoed through my ears and into what felt like the depths of my skull as we pulled back onto the main road. Now, individual traffic noises, revving engines, horns, sirens and the sound of my son’s voice repeating those same two words in what felt like an infinite combination, bounced around my skull, each singular noise furiously competing for my attention. My vision narrowed once more and all I could feel was the sensation of being trapped in my body, under my skin, unable to escape whatever it was that had invaded my being so insidiously. I could hear sounds, but could not make out what anyone was saying, only a tone that sounded serious and desperate. Heart attack? I concentrated on my knees which I had somehow managed to set in motion, and watched them repeatedly and rapidly rising and falling to the beating of my heart which I could hear and feel thumping, pounding relentlessly. ​The white noise seemed to change frequency back and forth and I could just about make out the words.

​​​

“It’s OK, you’re OK, it’s OK, you’re OK. She’s OK, she’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK, she’s OK.”

​​

​I came to in the car park of King’s College hospital with these same words now ringing in my ears. Dianne came round to the passenger’s seat and helped me swing my legs round and then hauled me out. Jack was in position to hold me from the other side and, slowly, we moved towards a small arch that said Accident and Emergency. Fuck, this really was an emergency then. I was having a heart attack.​

​

As we entered the building, my breathing suddenly and inexplicably slowed to a fairly normal pace as, again, much of my peripheral vision was restored. Normally the smell and the clinical nature of hospitals make me feel nauseous, but for now it was calming and I considered how comfortable some of the staff looked in their loose-fitting blue uniforms. They were called scrubs, I remembered, and for the next minute or so as I glided across the floor with the help of my ushers, that was the only word that existed, one whose shape and sound seemed to sooth me, despite the obvious incongruence with its harsh sound and aggressive connotation.

​​

​We moved through to A&E. It was packed. Lots of people, lots of noise. It was immediately overwhelming. I tried to steady myself as we spoke to the person at reception. There was a likely wait of two hours, we were told. I couldn’t bear the thought. I pleaded with the receptionist to be seen now. I was pregnant and didn’t know what was happening to me, I couldn’t breathe properly. Again, I felt a wave from the atmosphere inch me backwards and immediately became unsteady on my feet. I desperately tried to remain standing while she explained to me that they would only see me in the maternity ward if I was more than 19 weeks pregnant. Dianne looked at me inquisitively. I was 18 weeks, but this last hour had felt like a fortnight, so I just plain lied. ​

​​

“I’m 20 weeks pregnant. I need someone to see me now,” I sobbed. And with that I slowly eased myself onto the floor and lay there, enjoying momentarily the cool of the floor tiles, until Dianne, Jack and a couple of staff members helped me to my feet, into a wheelchair and in the direction of the maternity ward.

​​

​I don’t remember much else. When I woke up, it was 11pm and a nurse spoke to me to ask how I was feeling. I was much better. It felt like the horror was over. She explained that my friend had taken my son, picked my daughter up from the grandparents, and they were now at home.

​​

“With the father?”

​​

“No, they were unable to get hold of him, but your eldest daughter is at your home with them now, so they’re being looked after, all is well. Would you like me to get your phone so you can speak to them?”

​​

“Yes please”

​​

She brought over my bag, placed it on the table next to the bed and handed me my phone which was resting on top of the contents of the bag. I opened up the lid of the phone to see that I’d had two missed calls from Richie just 15 minutes previously and that I, or possibly Dianne, had called him a number of times a few hours back. I called him.

​​​

“Where are you?”

​​

“On my way home”

​​

“Did you not see the missed calls?”

​​

“Yeah, I did. Just now. And from Julianna. I just tried to call you back. I’ll be back in 20 minutes.”

​​

“I’m not at home. I’m in the hospital. That’s why we’ve been trying to call. Something happened earlier and Dianne had to take me here. I don’t know what it was, I haven’t spoken to the doctor yet, I’ve just woken up. You need to come and pick me up.”

​​

There was a long silence.

​​

“Did you hear me?”

​​

“Yeah, yeah, OK, I’m on my way. King’s?”

​​

“Yeah”

​​

“OK, I’ll be there in a minute”

​​

I saw the doctor hovering as I finished the call and when I closed the lid, he approached the bed. He had a gentle smile which immediately put me at ease. Surely, he wasn’t going to tell me any life-shattering news with a look like that on his face.

​​

“How are you feeling?”

​​

“Much better for some sleep, I think. I’m not sure what happened.”

​​

“Your friend explained most of it and I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. We did a few tests earlier which all seem fine and baby seems fine too. Have you been up to anything lately that you don’t normally do? Have you been resting and sleeping OK?”

​​

I recounted the shift in my work patterns and the fact that some of the work had been evening work and that recently I had been feeling more and more exhausted with it all. I explained that my husband had been out of regular work for a while and was doing odd jobs here and there, as was I, to make ends meet. Normally, in these situations, I’d have done my best to paint him in a good light. I would protect him and his uselessness and find excuses with the world so that it appeared he was trying his best, but simply having no luck. However, I sensed the tone in my voice did not mask my frustration this time and I heard my own exasperation when I rhetorically asked why he couldn’t just get a few shifts in the local cafes he loved to visit on a daily basis, or at least make his coffee at home!

​​

The doctor smiled to the point of almost giggling by this sudden animation in my voice and gestures. He then took a step back and told me that he’d be back shortly and was happy to discharge me whenever my husband arrived to collect me. At which point, my phone rang. It was Richie.

​​

“I’m outside in the main car park”

​​

“OK, I’m in the maternity section, so you’ll need to come there”

​​

“Do I need to come inside?”

​​

“Yes, you need to come inside,” I repeated deliberately so that the doctor, still hovering in the background, would hear the tone of my voice, even if he didn’t understand Spanish, and get the measure of him.

​​

“OK, I was just asking. I’ll come in.”

​​

A few minutes later he was being shown to the curtained off area where I was still in bed. The nurse followed him in and began rearranging the area to create some more space. There was a look of mild shock on his face when he saw that I was in bed.

​​​

“Are you OK?” he asked in a somewhat feeble voice, and in English, something he had a habit of doing when we were anywhere in public, his way of impressing the natives with his accent and colloquialisms. It suited me as I sensed I had a sympathetic audience and I replied back in English.

​​

“Yes, it sounds like it was just a bit of a turn. I’m basically doing too much, so I’ll need to cut back on some of the evening work. How come you didn’t pick up the calls? I don’t remember calling actually, but I saw that I called six or seven times.

​​

”Out of the corner of my eye I saw that the doctor had pulled back the curtain quietly and he remained there while Richie spoke.

​​

“Yeah, well you know where I was. I teach the English classes for foreigners on a Monday, the ones at the college in Balham, and then I went back to do some extra lessons with one of the couples at their place. Extra money, innit.”

​​

I hated the way he tried to speak like a London teenager, using their vernacular, as if it made him sound cool.

​

“So, I have to switch my phone off, you get me?” he continued.“

​​

But you only called around 11. So you only switched your phone back on then? You were round there till then?”

​​

“Yeah, I told you, they wanted extra lessons after the class so I went round to theirs in Balham and did another hour with them. That’s why my phone’s been off. Then I saw seven missed calls from you and a couple from Julianna.”

​​

“But you were on your way home, 20 minutes away?”

​​

Sensing prying ears, he lapsed back into Spanish

​​​

“Yeah, yeah, we chatted for a bit after the lesson and they went on and on.”

​​

I didn’t have the energy to continue the conversation and could see that the doctor had edged closer. He threw me a brief but telling look, raising and rolling his eyebrows as he walked in front of DC. It was all I needed. Acknowledgement.

​​

“OK, let’s get you sorted,” he said with cheerful authority, then, in the same tone, continued “and I would suggest that you just explain to your clients that you need to have your phone switched on in case of emergencies like this one. I’m sure if you explain that your wife is into the second half of her pregnancy they’ll understand”

​​

Richie, so often immune to shame, reddened like a scalded schoolboy. It was a joy to watch. He was about to offer some sort of defence, but the doctor spoke first.

​​

​“OK, Mariella, I’ve booked you in for a follow-up check in. Are you OK to go and confirm that at reception on your way out? We’ll just do some more precautionary tests, but I think it should be fine. Keep a paper bag handy about your person and if you find yourself in that situation again, blowing in and out of that can really help with the hyperventilation. And try to cut down on some of that extra work you’ve been doing so that you can get some good rest. I’m sure your husband here will help you put your feet up and get the kids to rally round! Best of luck and see you in a couple of weeks”​

​​

And with that he was gone. I could see the rage brewing inside Richie. He’d been well and truly ticked off. And by a professional. Eat that!

​​

I dressed, got my stuff together, and we headed outside to the car. “I can’t wait for my bed”

​​

“That doctor’s lucky I didn’t punch his fucking lights out. Who the fuck does he think he is? Did you hear how he was talking to me? Trying to tell me my business?”​

​​

“He’s a doctor. And he was there when I needed him.”

​​

​“Yeah, yeah”​

​​

There was a pause of at least 30 seconds and I started drifting off, only to hear the unnecessary revving of the engine and one last word from his mouth.

​​

​“Dickhead!”

*

**​

​​As the weeks and months progressed, I did manage to keep the extra work to a minimum, while Richie found some short term work with a friend and continued with the two or three hours of English to non-English speakers - adults at the college in Balham - as well as the additional work with the couple at their home afterwards. And, while he promised to keep his phone on during these sessions, he made it very clear that I was not to call or text other than in an absolute emergency: it would just look unprofessional.

​​

And so life went on. There was little effort made on his part to help me rest properly in the months leading up to the birth, probably his way of sticking two fingers up to the doctor. I was still left with the kids to sort out pretty much every evening. My eldest, Julianna, helped when she could while she was around for parts of the summer, but went back to university in Edinburgh in September and so was away until the early part of December.

​​

I worked all the way up until Christmas Eve with my regular job at the marketing agency and the next day, lo and behold, Marie’s boychild, my sweet little Diego, was born on Christmas Day!