My baby was early.
Ill was the pregnancy, but not so ill that panic was stricken upon the faces of the midwifery team.
My baby was early.
She broke free from the imprisonment of the non-maternal cell she was being cultivated in, to be wired up in a plastic cradle.
Perfect, she was; all save the tube feeds and ultraviolets. Sent home she was, so all was well and everyone was calm, except me.
She wasn’t early enough to stir any unrest amongst the people around, professional or personal.

My baby was infected.
Hard was the pregnancy, but not so hard that allowances were given from colleagues in my team.
My baby was infected.
He flew from the now slightly more maternal bunker in which he too had been cultivated, but not before being stained with the impurity residing in it.
Sublime, he was; all save the punctures he received to rule out the worst. Ruled out it was, so all was well, no one worried, except me.
He wasn’t infected enough to stir any unrest amongst the people around, professional or personal.

My tumour was killing me.
Rubbish were my hormones, but not so rubbish that it stirred up concern with the consultant team.
My tumour was killing me.
It bled, poisoning my now-protected from conception body (we don’t want that again), from within my liver in which it had been cultivating, secretly.
Benign, it was. Such a relief. Comments such as ‘No one died.’ Removed, it was. Everyone happy, except me.
It wasn’t killing me enough to stir any unrest among the people around, professional or personal.

My mind is not free.
Disappointing were my pregnancies; neither anti nor post-natal experiences the stuff of dreams.
My mind is not free.
Failure, is a concept I accept, bare and live with, outside of my heart. It’s my head that cultivates it.
Half my liver, it was. There are only two small tumours now. Monitored, they are. Everyone can see there’s nothing to worry about, everyone but me.
My mind’s free enough, there’s always some one worse off, say the people around.
Professional and personal.

NB: Remember; your own trials and troubles are your own. They are THE WORST to you. You have the right to own those feelings and believe in your pain. It is real, it is valid, and it is worthy.