I saw very few visitors at this time because I was often asleep. A dear friend, who was also then happily pregnant, called at the apartment a few times from her own apartment in the block across our road. One evening, my husband broke the sad news to me that she had lost that pregnancy. I immediately went across to be with her. We clung to each other tearfully for a long while. It was a sad event indeed. That would have been her second child had she carried the pregnancy to full term. She was never pregnant again.

I continued to attend my antenatal clinic at LUTH. In late May, about a month to my delivery date, I complained to the obstetrician that my baby was moving rather too energetically, though painlessly, inside me.

"It seems to be pushing for space," I explained. It was felt and listened to, and Dr. Debola Okoisor, who was now managing my case, as Dr. Coker had gone on sabbatical leave, assured me that my baby was doing OK. A new sedative, Duvadilan, was prescribed, which I took three times a day, to reduce the vigorous activity in the uterus. This complaint continued, nevertheless.

"You will have to come in on admission." Dr. Debola Okoisor finally decided.

I was hospitalized for monitoring, and in readiness for the removal of the Shirodkar stitch. The baby's vigorous movement was only somewhat reduced. One day, the baby must have pushed so hard that I felt fullness in my chest and I complained, "The baby is pushing all the way up my chest!"

The ward matron joked then saying, "This baby is going to deliver itself through the mouth!"

Thenceforth, my complaints were treated with humour. The baby was certainly pushing for room as, from time to time, what looked like an elbow; a knee-cap or heel would make a bulge on the surface of my abdomen. I could hold on to these protrusions as they briefly formed. I was continuously reassured that my baby was doing well. It was certainly alive and kicking!

I personally did not feel like a mere carrier. A carrier's duty is rather impersonal. He does little else than transport a load from one point to another without influencing its content. No, this load is a part of me, very much attached to me, depending on me for sustenance. It is a brand new life within me. Although I could not say for certain when our life together began, it soon made it's presence felt as it settled inside me. The realization was not as instant as knowing that I had been touched, and some power had gone out of me. It was rather that I was beginning to feel that another, other than myself, was sharing my power. The sharing became more competitive as our life together progressed. This new life depended on me for its continued existence, well being and growth. So we remained attached until it had become enabled to exist outside me, even If still dependent on me.

As a patient in an antenatal ward, where the majority of the women there had various problems threatening their pregnancies, our conversations were dominated by our many fears. We lent each other hope and tried to assure ourselves of our eventual safe deliveries. However, earlier failures at carrying pregnancies to full term kept the sense of insecurity alive in many of us. We suffered from considerable mood swings. Our forced joviality would quickly evaporate as soon as a neighbour cried out anxiously for help. We would immediately be thrown into fearful panic depression and silence. We fed on assurances and reassurances. Fortunately, the nurses there managed to remain cheerful always, which helped us retain some confidence in our ability to carry our pregnancies to full term.

My days in ward C2 were numbered. My expected delivery date was 25 June. Our daughter, Kemi, was born on 22 February, and our son, Muyiwa on 22 May. I willed this baby be born on 22 June to share that birth date with them. Indeed, I applied my entire mind to making this happen. On Tuesday 22 June, I was ready to deliver my baby. I even brought on actual contractions, which were confirmed by some nurses. The contractions were, however, never sufficiently established to warrant my being wheeled to the labour ward. I went to sleep that night rather disappointed, but in no pain.

I had bragged so much about my baby arriving on my own chosen date, that both patients and nurses laughed loud and long, when on the following morning, they found me still firmly attached to my baby. I joined in their jokes to begin with, but as the day progressed, my enjoyment of them wore thin. I began to snap at whoever dared carry them any further. I was soon left alone, while I sank into a self-precipitated depression.

Thursday 24 June arrived full of promise. I felt better that morning and was again bantering remarks with the other patients and the nursing staff. Since the removal of the stitch I could sit up and move around. After breakfast when I went to the toilet to empty my bladder, I felt the arrival of something besides the water. I cleaned myself gingerly and examined the tissue paper. There was some blood in the mucousy discharge. I folded up the tissue paper and wrapped it further in more tissue paper. I kept the small parcel in my dressing gown pocket and returned to my bed. By then I was beginning to have those contractions again. I privately hoped that they would be better established this time round and that my baby would soon be born. I told no one about it until my obstetrician arrived for ward round. Dr. Debola Okoisor had the curtains drawn around my bed and examined me thoroughly.

"Yes, I can feel the contractions, but they are early yet," she quietly informed me, as I had begged for secrecy over this. I could not bear to be jeered at again.

"Give her some castor oil after she has taken her iron and multivitamin tablets," she ordered the nurse before she left my bedside. She quietly wished me "good luck".

The sedatives had been discontinued after the removal of the Shirodkar stitch, a fortnight before, so I was very much awake and alert.

I requested for and was given a warm bath. A very senior nursing staff, who was a friend, took me to the bathroom and kindly poured the deliciously warm water over my rotund stomach. My bulk fully filled the tub, displacing a considerable amount of water. I enjoyed this luxury and felt elated and relaxed after I had been helped from the bath into my bed. I was ready for the event! The contractions continued and were occurring at regular intervals. My sister-in-law, Tomi Adenubi, visited soon after my bath, and stayed just long enough to announce that it was her birthday. She urged me to have my baby that day, so that they would share the same birth date.

When my husband arrived at visiting time, I announced, "I am about to have my baby." I took his hand and placed his palm on my stomach. "Feel how strong the contractions are!" I continued jubilantly.

The contractions were now coming so close together that I urgently begged him to inform the ward sister in her office. My bed was immediately curtained off, and I was hurriedly shaved down below. My nightdress was replaced with a white theater gown. My fellow patients were still absorbed in conversation with their visitors as I was wheeled out to the labour ward. My husband walked alongside my bed to the reception area beyond which he was not allowed to follow me. I waved happily to him, although I could see that he was worried. I was happy that I had arrived at this stage at last. This was, after all, what I had looked forward to for so long.

The labour ward was very busy that evening and every cubicle were occupied. Doctors, as well as the nursing staff were busy in one or other of these cubicles. My arrival was acknowledged, and as I was not given to screaming during labour, it was assumed that my case was not too urgent. My bed was packed alongside the wall, but within sight of the labour ward matron, who was in the last cubicle. In the short period that I was there, I requested for, and received, a vomit bowl, and a bed pan, neither of which I used. The contractions were now coming really close together. I kept up a breathing exercise, taught to me nearly a decade before, by Mrs. Teresa Oke, a physiotherapist and a former classmate at St. Teresa's College, Ibadan.

That breathing exercise worked like magic! I drew in a draught of air through my nose and heaved it out through my opened mouth. The inhaled air seemed to race around the contractions, picking up some of the pain and tension, and rushing them out only to return to fetch some more until the contractions subsided. As the contractions came closer together it worked faster still. It helped my concentration as well. It kept me in touch with everything that was going on inside me. The pain! The tearing stress! The mounting breathlessness!

Soon, the matron came out and wheeled me into her cubicle, which she was preparing for me all along. "Your labour is advanced," she exclaimed on examination. The waters broke, and she called urgently for assistance. "Staff! Nurse!" None came. They were all busy with other deliveries. She managed as best she could. She gave me an injection to relieve me.

"Now, listen carefully and do as I say, Mrs. Adenubi. I want you to turn onto your left side now." I did as I was told.

"Good. Now, place your right leg on my shoulder here. I proceeded to hook my right foot firmly round her neck. As I was not screaming, I was able to concentrate on everything she was doing and saying.

"You are doing fine. Just fine. Now, I want you to push only when I ask you to do so. Is that clear?" I grunted to let her know that I had taken that in. I pushed on cue. Once in mid-push, she urgently ordered, "Stop!"

I stopped instantly. She seemed to be disentangling something down below. She later instructed, "Now you can push."