The Day I Was Born

Sadia Ashraf

I stretched my small limbs and yawned widely, disturbing the fluid floating around me. I heard a scream. I've kicked her too hard again, I thought regretfully. Just as I was about to nestle back into my favourite position, I felt the muscle above me thrust my tiny feet down into my chest: since when could she do that? My heart pumped as I listened to the faint high-pitched scream of my mother. I received another blow to my feet and felt myself pushed down a few centimetres. Panicking, I squirmed and writhed hoping it was just my mum running for the bus again. More screams. Another push from above and also from the sides which pressed my elbows against my ribs. I struggled to keep my head from sliding down, but it was becoming increasingly difficult and I kicked upwards furiously as my head was compressed by the surrounding muscle. The blood drumming frantically in my tiny ears, I waited for the muscle around me to relax and let my head be, but was shocked to find myself being pushed further down and the soft bones of my head squeezing in together as I moved into what seemed like an enclosed tunnel. I could hear nothing now. I stopped kicking and rested my feet against the cushiony lining of my mother's womb. Please have stopped, I prayed, confused and numb. Just then, my entire body was compressed from all sides and the warm, familiar fluid that had surrounded me for the past nine months gushed past me and I twisted crazily as my fear mounted once again. My lungs were being squashed; my arms were pressed uncomfortably into me; my head was throbbing; this is serious, I thought. I think I'm being born

I think it was like that. I can't really remember to be honest. From what my parents have told me, I imagine it to be like this. I was ten days late so I'm guessing my mum was sitting prepared, on a crisp white linen-clad bed in Stobhill Hospital when I forced my way into the world. I can imagine my dad, brow furrowed and forehead glistening with sweat, as he paced the corridor wringing his hands, barely hearing the echoes of his shoes clicking on the clean white tiles. His breathing would have been uneven and every few minutes he would have sat down on the hard plastic chairs and turned towards what he reckoned was the direction of Mecca, to whisper prayers to Allah, just as any father-to-be would do to whomever they believed to be God. He would have repeated them over and over again as he struggled to sit still and I wouldn't be surprised to discover that he remembers every word he whispered to his God on that day.

My mum: in immense pain obviously. I can imagine her crying and sobbing into the sheets, longing to be back in her own mother's arms far away in Pakistan. Her soft skin will have been drenched in sweat and tears and her long, shiny hair pulled back from her face. She will have tried to bear the pain for as long as possible, but when the pain overwhelmed her, she agreed to an epidural and risked the dangers for me. Those long, dazed hours that my mum spent just for me. Nobody else would have done that. I'm perplexed as I try and think what must have been going through her mind. I have no words.

After hours and hours of thinking it would be over soon, my head had only been squashed even more. The muscle contractions were more frequent and my new limbs ached from all the motion. My entire body was surrounded by tense muscles and I could barely breathe. What if something has gone wrong? Surely I should be delivered by now? In a blurry moment, my head slipped out into the world and I screeched in shock as the freezing cold air rushed into my lungs like sharp icicles. The rest of my body followed and I was grabbed up by what seemed dozens of hands as my mother cried in relief. I was hastily bundled into a cold towel and thrust into my mother's warm arms and pressed against her tear-streaked face. I gazed into her warm, chocolaty eyes for the first time in my life, unable to tear my eyes away from hers.

I can imagine my dad rushing in, years of sprinting in school helping him to dash into the hospital room as quick as possible to glimpse his first born child. They both broke into tears, I know without having been told. After years and years of roaming around parks and funfairs together, gazing longingly at tiny children clutching candyfloss, they had yearned for a little person of their own to pamper and fuss over. I can imagine them sobbing and laughing over my tiny form lying in their arms. In those precious moments of having such intense attention from both my parents, I assume they were dreaming of places to take me, things to buy me. They were imagining all the possibilities of my life: a teacher, an engineer, a doctor, a pilot. They couldn't quite believe I was real, that I was really there, like small children discovering money under their pillows and unable to believe that the tooth fairy had really visited them.

As I sit here, in a classroom in Glasgow, looking out at the grey sky and the tall tenements, I imagine my parents looking out over the rooftops surrounding Stobhill Hospital and I feel I must achieve all that they dreamed for me. The day I was born was the day in my life which I now see seeming to stretch the furthest in front of me, with so many choices and possibilities that would define me as myself. I can only say that I'm glad I was born.