Lost

I’ve driven this road countless times since we moved here ten years ago. A non-descript stretch of highway that connects Byron to the Gold Coast, 90kms to the North.

I know where the clumps of wattles flower in Spring, look for them so I can pull over and pick arm-fulls to put in vases and deliver to friends. Instinctively check the tide height as we cross the bridge over the Bruns river. This time, the instinct doesn’t kick in and I wonder later, inconsequentially, where was the tide?

The morning was blinding sunlight. Relentless chat as the three year old twirled in uncontrollable circles around the house, bumping furniture and rebounding like a pinball.

An unexpected spot of blood, a moment’s pause. Tea in the spring sunshine, marveling at the progress of the freshly planted seedlings. A quick call just to check.

No need for alarm, best get to a hospital as soon as you can.

Snacks packed, phone calls made, drop Addie with friends — we’ll be back shortly. In this small community where most people live far from family, it’s not an unusual request. Nothing to worry about.

The hospital is quiet — a few Saturday morning gripes and staff who seem relieved they weren’t on last night’s shift. Byron Hospital must see its fair share of shit on a Friday night.

Pulse. Check. Blood pressure. Check. Nothing to worry about — pop in to a hospital bed so we can monitor you for a bit.

The doctor is friendly and they don’t have a sonographer on a Saturday. A few chuckles, cold gel on a warm belly. Chat, banter, chat.

Silence.

We have sent for an ambulance to take you to Tweed.

Bleeding starts. No. No no no! Tears of panic and a kind nurse who brings tissues and says it’s a routine thing to check — don’t panic. But there’s blood, an ambulance, and talk about hemorrhaging.

My veins won’t cooperate. Panic.

Sam leaves with my things and will meet me there. Please call my sister, don’t alarm her.

The ambulance staff lift me from my bed to the stretcher like an invalid. Banter and laughter and brave face and panic. “Wow, I’ve never been in an ambulance before! Have you guys had a busy morning?”

Then that fucking highway. Hundreds of times in ten years. It’s a thirty minute drive and takes two years. I’m facing backwards and wonder if the car behind us can see through the massive window I’m looking out of. Can see me.

I chat to the paramedics sitting and driving behind my head and realise one is watching me in a mirror. Checking. Oh no. Close my eyes and break.

Where am I? Where is Sam? Where is Mum? Fuck.

“It’s ok darling, it’s ok,” the one in the mirror says, seeing my tears. Focus. I’ve never seen these trees. Where was the tide?

The scan. The news. The news. The echoing news. Sam’s hand so warm but both of us so cold. When can we go? Please can we go? We need to go. Now. We need to go. Leave the stupid needle thing in, I don’t care. We need to go. Is it over?

Champagne by a fire. Conversations I don’t remember. Another friend called upon. Back to hospital.

“She’s very distressed,” whispered behind a curtain.

Phantom labour. Phantom fucking labour. The kindest nurse — Whitney. Sam. Whitney. Sam. Whitney.

Morphine and endone and I’m feel as though my head is going to fall off my body. A nurse says I’m a lightweight and we all laugh. They explain what they need to do to end the labour. Phantom. Labour. Panic.

Sam’s hand is so strong and face so close and words so quiet and breath so short.

That little one lost. Turns out the tide was high.