Beatrice Scudeler

I’m a writer, and I’m raising my son knowing that he might never understand what I do for a living.  He’s just turned four. Last year, he was diagnosed with autism. I knew that the NHS was overwhelmed with referrals, so I was expecting a long process. Instead, all it took was a single hospital visit with a pediatrician. She had no doubts.   Autism is not a life-threatening illness like congenital heart diseases, and it’s not a debilitating mental disorder like schizophrenia. But, depending on where a child falls on the spectrum, it can require lifelong care. It’s not what I would have chosen for my son. It’s not what any parent would choose.

Just over a year ago, I gave birth to my daughter. Labour was surprisingly smooth, unlike my previous emergency c-section. Once I started pushing, my daughter came quickly. I heard the reassuring sound of a newborn crying, and I felt the most indescribable sense of relief. Then, I started haemorrhaging. Before I knew it, I was under general anaesthetic in the operating room. When I came to my senses a few hours later, my first thought was the hospital’s policy: no visitors after 8 p.m. I had 12 hours before being left alone overnight with my daughter in a room full of equally badly injured mothers. A sense of panic set in. The countdown had begun.