In 1971 I gave birth to a baby, by caesarean section, who was born dead. Horrendous experience. The surgeon instructed all staff not to talk to me about this baby. I was put in a room on the men's surgical ward, far away from the maternity ward. I asked questions, cried and pleaded but got no information. A cleaner accidentally let slip the baby was a girl, I was so grateful to her and never told anyone. Even my then husband knew but wouldn't tell me. The reason behind all this secrecy was - my mind and body would heal quicker! A few days after the birth the arrogant, Australian , surgeon came to visit me in the secret hideaway they had put me in. He was surrounded by a dozen or so medical students. As he flung the door to my room open I was sitting in bed with a jug of water in my hand, ready to reach for a glass. I asked him why all the secrecy, he said:
''It's yesterday's news, all gone, all finished, all forgotten. Get yourself better and think what fun you will have trying for another one.''
For a minute all I could do was to stare at him, gobsmacked. Then with accuracy I never knew I possessed, I hurled the water from the jug straight at him. It hit his face and sloshed down his dicky-bow, soaked his shirt and white coat through. There was a minute of complete silence which was my chance to say to his entourage:
''That is exactly how not to speak to a woman who has just given birth to a dead baby.''
I glowed. He stormed out and I never saw him again.
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