I’m heavily pregnant and standing in a hospital with my mother and a male doctor. They’re discussing details about my childbirth. Which is today. What? I’m scrambling to comprehend the situation. My mother is releasing very personal information about me, then accuses me of not wanting the baby. I wonder how I’m this far along in the pregnancy, why I haven’t done anything about it sooner, but since I’m already here and it’s too late to terminate, I say: “If it’s healthy, I will take care of it. If it’s not, then I don’t think I can.” I notice I used ‘it’ and said ‘take care of’ instead of ‘care for’. My mother rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Something within me has a strong inkling that there will be severe complications with this child, because how could I be pregnant? They don’t know this; it’s my first pregnancy medical check-up and first childbirth wrapped into one.
The doctor calls over two other younger male doctors who will be overseeing my delivery and explains to them my “difficulties”, as he calls it. He skirts around with many other synonymous terms, meaning to say that I’m a strange patient with mental issues. I look at the two doctors and notice that they resemble each other, being of a similar height and build. Both are fairly short and petite-sized. They remain mute and nod their heads periodically at the explanation of my case.
My mother’s not around anymore so I pluck up the courage and ask the two doctors whether I could see them in private. We head into a small room, just wide enough to fit a round table, and that could only be closed with a heavy curtain divider. They sit across from me. I skip the social niceties and dive right in, prefacing my question with: “There’s Google now so we’re able to search for possible explanations, but…” I drop the bomb. It takes them by complete surprise. It’s a medical marvel, a rare medical mystery, though not the first as I’ve heard of such cases before, but rare and unusual. It explains to them somewhat about my personal “difficulties” and reservations. Then I realise there’s someone new sitting between them. I thought this was a private session?
“Wait, who is he?” I ask.
“Oh, he’s…” One of the doctors begins to explain but I’m not really listening as it’s just bullcrap and this whole situation is already too much for me to handle without having a nervous breakdown. Then I realise I’m now in a crowded room, a medical classroom of sorts, with rows of medical doctors behind me peering up at the screens above me detailing my case in different languages. The doctors discuss openly and loudly about my case, pointing at certain things on the screens. I hear a female doctor speaking in French and spot French sections on the screens. I try to decipher what it says about me.
Then I’m left alone in that room to mull over my predicament while they make the preparations for my childbirth, I assume. I sit and peer out into the hallway of the hospital, where a few nurses in scrubs buzz about from time to time. I think about the absurdity of all this. The betrayals. The mounting anxiety. The puzzling questions. Worries about the labour pains, the delivery.
When I see a couple of figures heading straight for the room I’m in, I face a bolted-down chair and grab on to it tightly. I feel myself being pulled away from it. They’re trying to pry my fingers apart and drag me away. I don’t want to go, I don’t want it to happen, so I grab on with all my might, struggling to hang on. But they’re too strong and I’m outnumbered. My grip begins to slip and I quickly switch to grabbing on to an adjacent chair, feeling as though I’m fighting for my life, fearing what will happen if I lose my grip, but it’s a losing battle.
My grip slips.
This dream was right after another bad one where I was jolted awake by a loud crash when something in my room fell to the floor. My heart was pounding right through my chest and punching the bed with every beat.