My idea of Chrissie's thoughts last night... it's not very good, I've had no experience of this sort of thing, thank Heaven. If this is too terrible, then tell me, and I'll get rid of it, but I just wanted to see what you thought.

“Chrissie?”

Owen. It’s Owen’s voice. I cannot think about that at the moment – there is a tube down my throat. I cough and gag until it is removed. My throat hurts. I feel oddly numb – disconnected from the world.

“Chrissie, you had a little girl.”

A girl! I wanted a girl. A beautiful little girl – I have a daughter. Owen sounds tearful… I know what he is about to tell me. They did the tests. Ed Keating is the father of my child – Owen must be devastated! I am devastated. Ed cannot be my daughter’s father. Everything is wrong with that. Ed isn’t the father. I’ve never believed that. I don’t think the dates match up. Owen is the one I want. I want Owen to be my child’s father. He’s holding my hand… would he do that if he weren’t the father? It doesn’t matter if Ed is the biological father. Owen could still be my daughter’s “daddy” – the one she goes to when she is crying…

“Chrissie, the baby is very sick. She needs you to wake up, Chrissie.”

My baby is very sick? No, this is a dream. Why else would I feel so disconnected? My daughter cannot be sick. That isn’t how it’s meant to go. I’m meant to have a happy life – Owen and my baby. But I try to wake up for my daughter. If she needs me, then I will not deny her anything – I cannot deny her anything. She is my daughter and I love her. I have spent the last eight months feeling her inside of me. And now she is outside of me and she still needs me, and I will help her. I open my eyes, squinting against the glare. It hurts my eyes – it’s too bright. I want to ask Owen to turn the lights down, but when I open my mouth to speak, he speaks again.

“She’s not going to make it, Chrissie. We’ll have to let her go.”

Let her go? No, no, no. Owen, this is a sick joke, it isn’t working, because I don’t believe you. Let me laugh, then let the joke be over. But don’t tell me, never tell me, don’t ever say that again. You can’t mean it. It can’t be true. My baby, no, she can do it. She’ll make it. She’s my daughter, this is wrong, Owen. I want to cry, I want to sob, I want to scream, but all that I can do is lie there, drugged up to the eyeballs. I don’t know if I’ll remember this. What if they let me see her and then I forget? Or what if they don’t let me see her? I want my baby.

And Owen leaves. I don’t want him to go – why does he leave me? I want him. I want him back! I want it to be Owen, my baby, and me. I had it all for those few months, but then… it all went away. I’ve lost Owen, and I’m about to lose my daughter.

Mum comes instead. She holds me close, and I snuggle in, wanting desperately to be the little girl again. The little girl who cried about her maths teacher shouting at her, or when she broke her favourite doll. I don’t want to be me any more. I want to be six years old again, when my baby was a doll who my mummy could always cure whenever something went wrong. It must be hard for her too – she’s seeing me upset. And my baby is her granddaughter. Her first grandchild. But she is my first daughter – my baby.

And then they wheel an incubator in. I know that she’s inside… my daughter is in there. It’s amazing. I know that we are about to turn the machine off, but I have never been so happy. I have my little girl; I can see her, the real baby, not just a white smudge on a black screen. And Owen comes back in.

“You can touch her.”

But if I do that, I will never want to move my hand away from her. I will never be able to let go. But my hand moves out of it’s own accord, and I move the blanket down, and see her perfect little face, obscured only by the tube. The one thing that keeps her alive. I can see her chest rising and falling. She’s breathing. How can she be so ill that they want her to die? She’s perfect. She’s mine.

“When you’re ready.”

When I’m ready? Owen, how can you say that? Ready to let my daughter die? I just want to look at her, I want to memorise everything about her – her nose, her eyes, closed tight shut, they will never see the world. She’ll never see her mummy. Her ears, they’ll never hear her mummy tell her how much she loves her. Her mouth, she’ll never cry, she’ll never say “Mummy”, she’ll never tell me that she loves me. But I know that she does.

“I’ll never be ready.”

But I nod. Because I know that I can’t keep my little girl forever. And they remove the tube. I hear the monitors bleep. Her little chest moves a few more times – slowly. It’s an effort for her. You can go, I tell her silently. I don’t mind. I know you have to go. I’ll let you go. I love you, so I’ll let you go. And she does. I hear one last sound. It’s the last thing that she will ever cause to happen. With that last breath, that last heartbeat, my baby leaves me. My daughter dies. And part of me dies along with her.

“Can we hold her?”

I never meant to ask. But they open the incubator, and gently give my baby to me. I look at her tiny face, her precious little body, the baby who was too perfect, too special, to spend more time on earth. And I know that there was no chance to save her, but I can’t help but feel so guilty. I gave them the go ahead. I told them to do it. I let them take my baby.

“I’m so sorry… my little girl.”

But she doesn’t reply. How can she? I took away her one chance of survival. And although I don’t want to spoil her perfect image, I find myself crying onto her face. I don’t want to spoil her perfection; she’s my little girl. She was the one good thing that had come out of my life, and now I can’t keep her. Why? What have I done to deserve this? Why is she being punished for something I have done? My little girl was perfect, she never did anything wrong. She never had the chance. Why take away the only thing that she had? Take me, hurt me, please, just – give her back. I would die for my daughter. I would suffer and I would die for her. Just let her be alive again.

*~*~*

It Only Hurts When I’m Breathing

Shania Twain

And it only hurts when I'm breathing
My heart only breaks when it's beating
My dreams only die when I'm dreaming
So, I hold my breath—to forget

Hurts when I'm breathing
Breaks when it's beating
Die when I'm dreaming
It only hurts when I breathe