My labour diary:

It was four in the morning. Without turning on the light I kneeled up in bed, leaning over Mike. I woke him up and told him I thought I was in labour and that we should get up. We got up and sat on the couch and Mike, with a notebook in lap, neatly charted the following times.

4:17:57
4:21:30
4:22:53
4:24:32
4:27:32

This was it and with a few last minute packing and cab calling, we were off.



I could not have known what I was in for. Not hours in the assessment room, hours in the bath. Not Mike counting through each contraction, not me spelling four letter words – shoe, walk, moon, star – over and over. Not the so many needles and cords stemming in and out of my body, last minute vaccines, blood tests, intravenous, shots of morphine, spinal epidural, catheter.

And at last, six stitches – but no, at last Bridget.

And her Dad, and a first night in a quiet room somewhere in St. Paul’s hospital. And a walk to the cafeteria to get apples and caramel.

And oh, this is my labour diary. This is what I remember about Bridget being born.