You can wrap your fingers round my thumb It was late evening. Tess and Henry were both tucked up in bed, dreaming of dancing sugar plums and what-not. Anna was heaving her 8-month pregnant body up the stairs, and Philip was just getting glasses of water for himself and his wife, looking forward to a nice long sleep after a tiring week at work. He’d had lots of marking to do, thanks to exam season at Harvard recently finishing, and he wanted nothing more than to get a decent nine hours of sleep. Turning off the kitchen light, he turned to go up the stairs and saw his wife sitting on the second step, a strange expression on her face.
“You all right there, Anna? You do know you’re meant to fall asleep in bed,” he joked.
“I-Phil-I’m in labour.” She turned a horrified face to him. 8 months was too early, she was sure she had at least four more weeks to go, if not five.
“Right.” Philip’s voice came to him as if from a distance. He was aware he should – or rather shouldn’t – be panicking, but all he could think of right now was that he’d much prefer it if this was some elaborate joke. Jokes he could deal with. Premature labour was something a little less humorous. Shaking his head – Anna wouldn’t joke about something like this – he leapt into action.
“Ok, we’re 36 weeks along – that’s not awfully premature, lots of babies survive being born earlier.” Survive, why did he use the word survive? Of course the baby was going to survive, there was no question about it, no need to panic – was he panicking? – no STOP. Think rationally. “We need to get you to the hospital. Mrs Milmer can come and look after the kids. Go and get into the car, I’ll grab you some clothes and then we’ll go straight to the hospital and the doctors will make sure everything will be alright.” Deep breaths, stay calm. They could do this. Their next door neighbour would be happy to babysit Tess and Henry despite the lateness of the hour, and the doctors were more than capable of dealing with a baby born a few weeks early.
***
“Right, Mrs Whittaker, you’re in active labour, so it shouldn’t be too long before you get to meet your baby! Before we take you to the birthing room, we’re just going to perform another ultrasound and a foetal echo to check everything’s ok. Don’t worry, we’re not expecting any problems, most times there’s no obvious reason for a premature labour, the body has just decided that it’s time.”
***
Tess woke up to an unusually quiet house. Since starting Sonora and getting a bit older she’d found herself waking up later than she used to, but her brother Henry was still up at half six every morning, and he and their father often woke Tess up by making an unearthly racket. Throwing on a light dressing gown, she stumbled downstairs to find Henry and Mrs Milmer eating cocoa puffs.
“Hey, Mrs Milmer. Where are mum and dad?” she asked, yawning.
“Mum’s having the baby,” Henry informed her, through a mouthful of cereal.
“What?!” Tess was immediately panicking. “But she should still have another month to go! Is something wrong? What happened?”
“Calm down, dear,” said Mrs Milmer, fetching another bowl from the cupboard and pouring Tess some cereal. “Your mother’s gone into premature labour, but that’s nothing to worry about. She’s in expert hands. Why, when my Johnny was born he was six months early! I could hold him in the palm of my hands and look at him now, a strapping young lad.” Young was, perhaps, a slight stretch of the imagination, as Johnny Milmer was in his 40s, but he was definitely well over six foot. The point was valid.
“They’ll let us know what’s happening, won’t they?” asked Tess, her immediate worries assuaged enough that she could sit down and eat some breakfast.
“Your father said he’d be back later today to tell you kids how it’s going along. And if the labour isn’t too long, you’ll get to meet your new sibling soon!”
***
“What does it mean?” asked Philip, heart racing, palms sweating, and feeling like he was trapped in a nightmare that he’d very much like to wake up from. The doctor frowned apologetically.
“Hypoplastic left heart syndrome means, essentially, that the left side of your daughter’s heart is underdeveloped. The cause is unknown, but normally it would be detected a few days after birth. The scans we’ve just done, however, mean we’ve picked it up earlier than usual, which gives us a higher survival rate. I’m sorry to unload this all onto you now, but you’ve got two options to choose from, and the sooner you decide, the better. Firstly, we could go down the Comfort Care route, which means relieving the pain and some of the symptoms, allowing your daughter to die peacefully and with as little suffering as possible.”
Philip’s face went even paler, tears springing to his eyes. Discussing his daughter’s death before he’d even had the chance to hold her in arms was a scenario that had only occurred to him in his worst nightmares, but with two healthy children he had been so sure that nothing could go wrong. What had he done wrong to deserve this? God, take me instead, the mantra ran through his head and he wasn’t sure if it was the agonised cry of an atheist or the anguished prayer of a long-lost theist, clasping at any straw that could possibly save his beautiful baby girl. “Is…is there anything that can be done to save her?”
“Well, the second option is our best chance of that. It involves three operations: one in the next few days, one in about 6 months’ time, and one a year or two after that. As you can imagine, success is by no means guaranteed. The operations are awfully invasive on such a small body, and the first one has the lowest success rate. If she survives that one, things start looking up. But it’s your call, I’m sorry.”
“The operation,” Philip replied immediately. “We’ll go for the operations. I’m not giving up on her that easily.” There was no way he was going to let his daughter just die without putting up a fight, and whilst his wife wasn’t there (being currently occupied giving birth to their daughter), he knew without a doubt that was what she would say. He was not ready to say goodbye – he hadn’t even said hello to his baby yet, and he already knew that he would always choose the option that gave him just a few minutes longer with her.
“Ok, Mr Whittaker. We’ll put her in intensive care for a few days, and get ready to operate. By the way, do you have a name chosen for her?”
“Emma,” said Philip, smiling as he said his daughter’s name. All four of them (Tess and Henry included) had taken ages to decide upon the name, finally finding one they agreed upon after hours of debate over both serious and silly suggestions. “Emma Victoria,” he added, spontaneously choosing her middle name. It felt fitting. There was no way his daughter was going to die. Was she?
***
She was so small. She was so small, so fragile-looking, but she was their daughter and she was breathing, she was crying, and no matter what Philip had just told her, Anna couldn’t imagine anyone looking more alive. She smiled through the tears running down her face as baby Emma’s waving hands caught onto her little finger, with a grip that was so strong. And it had to be. Emma was going to have to go through things that no baby should have to survive. Her first days would be full of machines and pain and rapid breathing, instead of love and cuddles and happiness. “Keep beating,” she whispered, kissing Emma’s chest just over her heart before letting the doctors take her away. “Tell your heart to keep beating for Mummy.”
And then her daughter was taken from her, and the world felt so empty without that little bundle of warmth in her arms where she belonged, but Anna had to stay strong, had to believe that somehow a miracle would happen, had to happen, because she didn’t think she could cope without her baby.
***
He told Tess and Henry the truth. At 13 and 11 they were old enough to not have any secrets kept, were old enough to be told of the dangers facing their baby sister, although the news was of course wrapped up in optimism and hope. Henry was pacified by this, but Tess saw through the cheerful words and the fake smiles to the bloodshot eyes and the fear that he’d tried to keep hidden.
She wasn’t one to cry, at least not in front of Henry, but never in her carefree childhood had she encountered anything as hard to keep in as this. Philip found her crying that evening after she’d gone to bed, and held her tight as she fell asleep, whispering words of comfort that he tried to believe himself.
Anna was still in hospital after the difficult birth, and Emma was of course still in intensive care before the operation, which was scheduled for two days’ time. Philip felt like he had to be everywhere at once, do everything, and yet still nothing he did was enough, because he couldn’t make Emma well. Sleep had become a distant memory. He couldn’t fall asleep, feeling as if Emma would slip away whilst he did. Besides, he had to be there for Tess and Henry, be there beside his wife, make decisions with her regarding Emma’s treatment (always yes to anything that had the slightest chance of keeping her alive), and somehow force down the fear that, at times, threatened to stop him functioning. In between all this he’d found the time to somehow find the way to the nearest magical hospital (they really didn’t make it easy for muggles) to ask if there was anything, anything at all, that magical treatment could do to help. He’d been told that no, it was best to remain with muggle treatment, and to come back when Emma was older – if she survived that long – as there might be something more they could do then. And not for the first time he cursed the hope that had risen at the thought that surely magic could help. It seemed there was nothing to do but wait, hope, and pray to a God he wasn’t even sure he believed in. And take every opportunity he could to spend as much time as possible with his daughter before there was no more time left.