Jane Wilson-Howarth

When our family of four moved to the remote river island of Rajapur, I began to craft a memoir about life in the exotic lowlands at the foot of the Himalayas but it took years before I was ready to bring little David centre stage. The story of his short life seemed too precious to share. Now though I see that he should be heard as he can teach parents and doctors alike important lessons on when medical intervention is right and when perhaps it isn’t.

We reached the summit of another grassy ridge. This time the view was dazzling: snow-covered mountains against an azure sky, with the Annapurna Massif on the northern horizon. The delicious perfume from wild daphne bushes reached my nostrils. Freshly replastered red and white thatched houses were ahead of us, and the scent of woodsmoke told me that cooking fires were lit. I hoped we might buy freshly boiled buffalo milk for exuberant, three-year-old Alexander, and steaming glasses of sweet tea for ourselves. 
Alexander raced down to the village with his father on his heels. Barking dogs sprinted out from several directions and kids shrieked, ‘Children have come!’ Squawking chickens scrabbled for a few grains of rice in the courtyard, and a black pig oinked in the corner. David, our three-month-old, was laughing out loud at the ruckus. 
 

Circling a whirlpool of pain, I submitted to pethidine. A foetal heart monitor was strapped to my bulging belly. Laughing gas didn’t it make me laugh – nor did help much – but the drugs did induce that odd phenomenon of time-compression and warped my understanding of what was happening. Yet I should have understood. This was my environment. I was obstetrics-trained but I was the patient now.