If you’ve been following my recent blog, A Story I’ve Never Told, you know that my parents' dream of starting a family had essentially spiraled into a living nightmare. But, being the people they are, they shouldered on.

By the time my Mum got pregnant with my brother, "nervous" didn't even begin to cover it. After losing their first, the stakes felt impossibly high. She was terrified of history repeating itself.

My brother ended up arriving six weeks early. I actually sat down with Mum recently to fact-check this series, and she’s convinced the prematurity was a direct result of that sheer, underlying anxiety.

The birth experience itself sounds like something out of a cold, Victorian drama. As soon as he arrived, Mum wasn't even allowed to hold him; he was whisked away into an incubator, and she didn't get to touch him again until the day they were discharged.

Then there’s the story she tells, usually after a glass of wine or two, about the Maternity Unit’s "natural milk only" policy. I’ll leave the mechanics to your imagination, but let’s just say the Matron wasn't exactly a pillar of support. Mum remembers being told off for "not trying hard enough," which is about as far from empathetic as you can get.

By the time I was ready to make my appearance, the doctors had seen enough. Their advice to her was simple: get out of London. Apparently, if you wanted decent maternity care back then, you had to head for the hills.

The Cold Shoulder of Care

The medical world back then seemed to lack the one thing a grieving, anxious mother needed most: humanity. Between the forced separation from her newborn and the clinical guilt-tripping from the staff, it’s a wonder my parents didn't give up on the dream entirely.

It just goes to show that while medicine can save lives, the way we treat people in their most vulnerable moments is what actually stays with them. Stay tuned for the next chapter of the move out of London.