It was January 7, 2000. I was seven months pregnant and headed to the bathroom before the commute home. I looked down and my pants (my favourite Japanese Weekend maternity jeans) were covered in blood.
I wasn’t in pain, no cramps, but there was the blood; lots of it. To be honest, it didn’t occur to me that I was in any danger. I had always been sure that I was built to be pregnant and I was having a happy and healthy pregnancy.
My midwife was very calm when I called her, she told me that I should come straight to the hospital and she would be waiting for me. I called my husband and after a moment of “what are you talking about??”, he rushed downtown to get me.
Even in the car I wasn’t that concerned. I had looked up bleeding on the rudimentary Internet and learned that I was most probably experiencing some bleeding from my placenta. Good thing, I hadn’t kept reading because as soon as we arrived at the hospital I could see that I was being treated as if we, and I mean both my baby and I, were in danger.
Midwife did a quick scan, started muttering about the membranes, contractions and called in a perinatologist. Suddenly, I was having steroid shots to improve the baby’s lungs and being monitored closely for signs of labour as I was experiencing mild contractions. My husband and I realized at the same time that in a matter of hours we could be parents of a 32-week old preemie.