The blood doesn’t seem that serious. I don’t know whether to believe in it or not. I call the midwives. I’m bleeding, I tell them. Come straight in. There isn’t loads. Just a bit. I’ve told them it’s happening. I’m bleeding. And so they must say – we need to induce you. They must get me started. My sister in law is there. She smiles. It all feels performed. The whole thing is a performance. I realise she’s a stranger. I barely know her. She looks at my music choices with disdain. Suddenly we both understand that her being here is preposterous. I act out the craziness of gas and air. They tell me it’s not really moving along as they ‘d hoped and an intravenous drip will work. Drugs that will force the ending to take place are pumped into my arm. More drugs that numb the pain are pumped into my spine. The woman helping me, who believes powerfully in all of this is called Amity. Amity tells me it will all be ok. Amity is kind and gentle and lovely.