A Note: This post details a real medical event and the systemic institutional failures that followed. It contains descriptions of physical pain and distress.

Exactly as I never planned it

My name is…I grasp for air, kneeling. With both hands, I grab the ledge of the bathtub as if it’s the only thing keeping me from falling off the cliff. My face is down, staring at the white bottomless pit. For a brief moment, though not long enough, I am distracted by the strands of hair stuck to my forehead. 

My legs begin to tremble, the hard floor piercing right through the bones in my knees. Suddenly, a more pressing pain takes over. Completely consumed by it, I scream so loud my voice vibrates through my entire body. I am running out of hope that someone will believe me. I can’t complete my sentence. Again. 

Finally, another short moment of relief. Catching my breath, I turn my head slightly to my right, spotting a man in a navy blue uniform, a firefighter. He pats my back, then rubs it in an attempt to console me. This gesture only annoys me. I need something more than this, and he isn’t equipped to give it to me. 

Somewhere in the distance behind the bathroom walls, I hear a crowd of men. I make out one voice saying, “We need her to get down the stairs.” Then, I hear nothing else. My mind turns inward as though I’ve been possessed by a demon. Another sixty seconds pass. I am not going to make it. I am sure of it. In one breath, I yell, making the biggest plea for my life: “Please, please, help me!” 

“We’re waiting for the paramedics, Ma’am,” he says matter-of-factly, as though everything is out of his control and there’s nothing he can do. “Your primary contact can’t make it. She’s stuck in traffic across the city and won’t get over the two bridges in time.” He shrugs.

I feel stupid, as though I brought this on myself. Did I not prepare enough? Did I put too much trust in the people who were supposed to show up?

I look down. It occurs to me that I have a bathrobe placed over my shoulders, barely covering my body. I am naked in front of men I do not know, suddenly consumed by the thought that they have seen all of me. In a moment of panic as I put my right arm in one sleeve, I see blood pooling on the taupe-coloured bathroom tiles. I’ve invited a graffiti artist to join me. 

It already feels like a lifetime of waiting. I am told to hold on, but time is running out. The ultimate test of strength is now. Not when I trained five days a week at the boxing gym, and not when I joined a military endurance race. Not then. But now. 

I am still kneeling, holding on as my sweaty hands challenge my grip. Pressure suddenly moves down to the pit of my stomach. I am utterly exhausted. Alone.

He still does not know my name. 

This is not how it was supposed to be. She was meant to arrive safely here, to be with me.

Instead, the front door opens, but there is no relief. The men arrive, only to find out they have no morphine.

“OK, Ma’am, we understand you’re in pain,” one of them says. “But the first team of paramedics forgot the medication. We’re waiting for a backup team.” 

I scream into the pain. The men surround me, completely detached. Maybe the years of responding to emergencies, or the fact that they’ve never given birth, makes them desensitized. 

Two large men grab me by the shoulders. I let go of the bathtub ledge. I’m up, standing, hands dangling like a Halloween skeleton. My legs feel like jello, like the blood has stopped circulating in them. I have sixty seconds to get down the stairs, out the door, through the alley, and into an ambulance. Go! 

Gripping the handrail, I move as fast as I can, counting down each step. At last, I have one more step to go. I am naked underneath my knee-length fluffy pink bathrobe and wearing the only pair of shoes near the door: my ridiculous, sparkly pink Crocs. I look like Barbie in a horror movie, with my hair breaking free from a top knot, as if it understands the necessity of the escape. 

I make it halfway down the alley when I am stopped by repeated stab wounds to my abdomen. I grab onto the wooden fence; slivers of wood pierce my fingers. 

Back on the stretcher, my legs are strapped together as the three paramedics decide what to do with me. “Here.” He points right next to him. “We will place her down.” 

Unable to process their plan, all I know is she will not arrive with my legs strapped tightly together. I catch my breath to scream, “Remove the straps. It can’t happen this way.”

The sirens grow louder, like a concert hall speaker booming right next to me. He responds, “Ma’am, we must keep them on. It's a safety protocol.” I don’t bother to protest. I know I don’t have time to give him a crash course on female anatomy. It’s as though I’ve been smacked in the head with a moment of wisdom: save your energy for when she is about to arrive.   

My body is tired and my mind is about to give up. I ask for morphine. Again. “Ma’am, I need to check if you are fully dilated.” “Do what you need to do,” I respond. He puts gloves on, then inserts a finger in me and swirls it around. “OK, Ma’am, we can’t administer morphine because you’re fully dilated. If we administer morphine, it will impact the baby’s breathing.” 

Shit. 

Next thing I know, I am in a wheelchair in the wrong ward of the hospital. From across the room, I overhear, “Is she actually ready?” A short conversation ensues as tears pour down my cheeks, smearing the pink sparkles on my Crocs. I bury my face in my hands, reminded of all the times in my life when I wasn’t believed. I have no more evidence to give them.

I give up. 

The wheels begin rolling. I go down the hall, past the nurses’ station, and down another hall into my own private room. It looks like an upscale motel room. 

They move me onto a hospital bed. Suddenly, I hear, “Push. Push.” 

“I can't,” I say. 

“Yes, you can,” says an assertive female voice. She must have done this a few times before. 

My mind switches gears like the click I hear my bicycle make when going uphill. With everything I have, I must get her out of me. 

I hear a woman yell, “You sucked her back in!” I take another deep breath. It's the final stretch beyond anything I knew I had. Finally, right when my body is pushed to its absolute limit, I hear, “I see her head.” 

As I lie on the hospital bed, the nurse brings her to me. I can’t fully process that I have my baby in my arms. I am still panicking, trying to come down from it all. 

Then, I hear a sharp cry. I feel a warm little body on mine. I look at her in total awe.

She is perfect and healthy. 

Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience—and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and publishes on her website.