‘Now, Jason. Let’s go!’ I commanded.

Jason turned pale and stuttered over his words. ‘Well, congratulations – send Susie our best,’ he muttered, before the doors swung open and we entered College Square Hospital.

Thankfully he remembered the way to the labour ward. I was so doubled up I was barely aware of our surroundings but at last I found myself by a bed. A curtain was swiftly pulled around us and I finally had a chance to bend over the side of something and concentrate on my breathing again – it was the only position in which I felt vaguely comfortable. I clutched my pillows tightly, breathing in the familiar smell of home to mask the clinical scent of antiseptic and starched sheets beneath it. I tried to focus on getting into some kind of rhythm with my breathing while I braced myself for the next contraction and the midwife went to get the gas. Another nurse came to check how things were coming on and, after managing to manoeuvre myself onto the bed, I felt as though she had crushed my soul when she told me I was only two centimetres dilated and we had ‘jumped the gun rather’ by coming in. I nearly throttled her. Luckily, they had a spare bed so she wouldn’t send us back home tonight.

‘Am I meant to thank her?’ I scowled at Jason the second she disappeared behind the curtain.

‘Well at least we can stay here,’ he replied timidly.

‘Whose fucking side are you on?’ I retorted, knowing that the swear word was unnecessary, but it came out just as another contraction hit me like a landslide. ‘You. Have. No. Idea. How. Painful. This. Is.’

The contractions continued, ever more frequent and when they checked again, I had reached seven centimetres. At first I thought they were having a wicked laugh at my expense when I was asked to get into a wheelchair. But no, they actually expected me to somehow get into one and sit still. I cautiously lowered myself into the chair the moment one contraction ended and was hurriedly pushed down corridors, skidding around corners, to one of the labour suites. Jason ran behind with all my belongings while I screamed at him: ‘The pillows, don’t forget ALL of the pillows! And the speakers!’ If there was a time for ‘Push It’ to be played, it was now. It suddenly seemed like a good idea after all. An absolutely brilliant idea. I hoped he hadn’t deleted it from the playlist. The gas had taken effect.

We reached the labour suite in the nick of time – the chances of an epidural or a birthing pool were blown. A monitor was put around my belly.

And then came the terrifying moment.

An alarm sounded loudly, a light flashed above the door and suddenly half a dozen doctors and nurses were around me, doing things with instruments and putting things I didn’t understand on my bump. Jason was pushed to the back behind them. I grimaced loudly in the grip of shooting pains from within. A syringe was put into my arm, without any discussion. Sweat was pouring down my cheeks. I noticed Jason’s ashen, shell-shocked face peering through, trying to make sense of what was going on.