Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a bright young woman with a bright future ahead of her. She was a student soon to complete her studies and embark on a glittering career, and her life was full of promise.

But despite all this, the young girl was sad. Worse than sad, if the truth be told, because the break up of what she thought was a match made in heaven had knocked her sideways and she was struggling just to get through each day. She would make it into classes as and when, and in between she survived on TV and ready meals. Exams loomed, and they worried her, but she didn’t really seem able to get excited about them. It was not a pretty picture.

She wasn’t stupid. She did know that her body felt different. She did notice that her periods seemed not to come. She blanked it out, and put it down – wishful thinking, this – to the stresses of her life. Exams. The split. Friendlessness. The sadness.

But then, the exams were over and, back at the family home for the summer, reality had to be faced. She did the test. The Test. It was positive. A parting shot from that match made in heaven.

Now what the hell do I do?

The NHS doctor said – you’ve left it too late. A friend said – go private. The private hospital said – this is the price, when do you want your appointment?

The operation. Waking up groggy, relieved. A scan – the alien is still there. A few days later, a trip to the hospital, some drug or other. The next day, admitted into hospital. The same drug, I think, or maybe a different one. Twice. The alien is tenacious.

Contractions, although I didn’t know it at the time, because what they had done was to induce an early labour, I think. I didn’t really understand. At the time, just pain, cramps. They offered me pain relief, eventually they gave me something that worked a bit, for a while. Then, at long last, the weird slippery rush of a flushed alien. Later, I would know that it was the same slippery rush of a normal, full term birth. But this one, of course, was different.

The rest – the placenta and all, I suppose – stayed put. Another operation. I remember being woken for the trip to theatre. I remember the anaesthetist, cheerfully competent in the middle of the night, coming to me after an emergency somewhere else. I remember the relief of waking up to find that it was finished. Really finished this time.

Was it bad? Pretty bad, I think. Regrets? None.

I’m sorry, Mum, if you’re reading this, that I never told you before.

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