I gave birth at a government hospital fifteen years ago. It was meant to be the most joyous day of my life. I was optimistic and youthful and had successfully brought my kid to term. But I knew something wasn’t right as soon as I left the delivery room. When I asked to hold my kid, the nurse turned away. I was softly informed by a doctor I had never seen before, “We’re sorry; your baby didn’t make it.”
I sobbed. I let out a yell. They denied my request to view the body, stating that it had already been handled “to spare me the trauma”. My fiancé had disappeared halfway through my pregnancy, leaving me alone at the age of 22. Even though nothing seemed right, I agreed to the explanation. There was something in me that would not go away. I had the impression that my kid was still alive somewhere when I woke up in the middle of the night for years. To read more click here.
