“When the next contraction comes, you can gently start pushing,” the head midwife says. But I can’t. For two days, I’ve done everything in my power to hold on to my baby - and now she’s asking me to let go. A complete loss of control.

The pushing phase begins, and within minutes the number of people in the room grows from two to twelve.  A midwife, a head midwife, a student midwife, two healthcare assistants, two nurses, two paediatricians, two doctors, and a medical student. Premature births are always high-risk deliveries. We’ve already been told what to expect. He will be placed in a plastic wrap the second he is born, so he can stay warm. He can only lie on my chest for a maximum of one minute. He will be taken from the delivery room after just a few minutes.

He is delivered in ten contractions. At 6:53 PM, he is born. At 6:54 PM, the paediatrician takes him from me and places him on the table next to me. I remember nothing from the minutes that follow. At 7:06 PM, he is taken out of the room and transferred to neonatal care. That I know - because apparently, I took photos with my phone. Something I also don’t remember doing. At 7:10 PM, it is just me and the midwife left in the room. At 9:30 PM, I am moved to Room 23 - which will become my home for the next six weeks.


Monday, June 30th, 2025
I have been signed off work with Braxton Hicks contractions for more than two months. I am 29 weeks and 5 days pregnant when, this afternoon, I start to feel slightly heavier in my stomach than I have in previous weeks. The summer holidays have just begun, and like every year, we plan to move into my partner’s parents’ house while they are away on holiday. It also means we can rent out our own apartment during that time.

Despite my heavy pregnant body, we decide to go ahead with the plan. All I need to do is pack a small bag with some clothes, and my partner will take care of the rest. It feels manageable.

We move in on Friday. On Saturday and Sunday, we take turns going back to the apartment to take care of small things.

On Monday, I go there to change the bedding, put out towels and get everything ready - completely normal tasks that both my doctor and midwife have said I’m allowed to do.

But after getting everything ready, I can feel that I need to go home and lie down. 

That’s something I’ve been doing a lot lately - lying down.

Sometimes for hours before I could feel my stomach relax. Other times, it would pass more quickly. But this afternoon, it’s as if it doesn’t really go away. In fact, it feels like it’s getting slightly worse as time passes.

“Your uterus is just practicing,” my midwife had told me when I explained how my stomach would suddenly tighten out of nowhere - something I could feel throughout my body and in my breathing for about 30 seconds before it passed again. It was the same feeling I had this afternoon - just slightly different. Not more painful or more intense - just more frequent.

Around 6 PM, I decide to call the maternity ward. I just need someone to confirm over the phone that everything is as it should be. “It sounds completely normal,” the midwife on the phone says - a sentence I’ve heard many times throughout my pregnancy. Still, I insist on coming in for a check.

I kiss my daughter goodbye and tell her I’ll be back once she’s asleep. Mom just needs to go and make sure her little brother is okay. At that moment, I don’t know that it will be three days before I see her again.


Tuesday, July 1st, 2025
It’s night. I’ve been admitted to the maternity ward at Herlev Hospital. The doctors quickly confirm that my cervix is significantly shortened. 11 mm - the normal length is 30 mm.

“But it’s still closed, and that’s a good sign. Some women can have a short cervix all the way to week 40. In some cases, it can even lengthen again,” the doctor explains, while starting me on medication to stop the contractions and giving steroids to help the baby’s lungs develop in case he arrives too early.

Her words give me a sense of hope - and at the same time, I clearly feel the seriousness of the situation. Maybe my baby is already coming now. More than ten weeks too early.

The evening passes in distress, difficult but realistic decisions, and phone calls to my partner, family and friends. Every other hour, a midwife comes in to check on the baby using the blue CTG belts, measuring his heartbeat and my uterine activity.

Sometimes they come more often, if I’ve felt something unusual and pressed the call button. They are kind - the staff. They hug me, hold my hand and listen. “Is there someone you can call to be with you tonight?” But my partner has to stay home with our daughter. It feels too late to ask a friend to come. And somehow, it would feel strange for my parents to be here.

I meet many midwives during those days at the hospital, but the one I have that night leaves a lasting impression on me. Her name is Liv. She’s a little older, with big, curly, light-coloured hair - and she carries a calmness that makes it feel like she has all the time in the world for me.

Liv.

Such a beautiful name. As simple as it may sound, it gives me hope in this warm summer night, where I’m trying to hold on to my baby.

My partner arrives in the morning, straight from dropping off our daughter at school. I burst into tears the second he walks through the door. It’s only now that I truly feel how scared I am that everything might go wrong.


Wednesday, July 2nd, 2025
I have to stay completely still in bed. I’m only allowed to get up to go to the bathroom. Despite the hopeful scenarios the staff present, my own hope is slowly fading. Over the past day and a half, I’ve been bleeding, my water has been leaking for nearly 20 hours, and I’ve had strong contractions throughout the night.

I take painkillers to get some sleep. In the morning, I’m taken to the delivery ward with suspected active labou

“You’re eight centimetres dilated,” the midwife says, after I unsuccessfully tried to go to the bathroom despite a strong urge. A small head is already blocking the way. They stop the medication that was slowing the contractions and wait for my body to take over. But it doesn’t. For seven hours, my body doesn’t produce a single contraction.

Towards the evening, they decide to start stimulation, as I’m showing signs of infection - and in that case, it’s best for the baby to be delivered.

On July 2nd at 6:53 PM, I give birth to a strong and healthy little boy. 39 cm long, weighing 1608 grams. Exactly 10 weeks too early.

If you look past the plastic wrap he’s placed in immediately after birth, he looks like a normal baby - just smaller.

But “normal”…
That’s a word I will struggle with for a long time. He is born early, but that doesn’t make him abnormal.


Thursday, July 3rd, 2025
I wake up at 7 AM in a hospital bed next to a large incubator.

Inside lies my son. I start crying at the sight of him. Neither my body nor I have fully understood that I’ve given birth. I place my hands on my stomach, trying to feel his kicks, his gentle movements from inside. But they’re not there.

Two nurses enter the room. I’m a mess. I try to keep it together but quickly realise it’s impossible. We begin a conversation I will have many times over the next weeks. “There’s a new sheriff in town,” they say. “He’s the one in charge now - and he was ready to come out.” But I don’t believe it. I struggle with guilt and shame.
“If only I had…”

Then maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation. It will take months before I truly understand that I couldn’t have known how short my cervix was. That it probably would have happened anyway - sooner or later. 


Monday, July 7th, 2025
It’s the middle of the summer holidays. The summer we had imagined spending in the garden, going to the beach, visiting Sweden and relaxing while waiting for our baby boy. Instead, things look very different. My in-laws have rushed home from their holiday in Greece and are now staying in the house on Frederiksberg. My daughter, my partner, and his parents are all there.

I only see my daughter for a maximum of a few hours a day.

She’s six years old and understands why I have to stay in the hospital. But that doesn’t mean she accepts it. Every time they have to leave, she has to be gently peeled away from my loose hospital gown. It feels like my heart is being torn out every time.

I buy two small stuffed polar bears from the 7-Eleven in the hospital lobby. One for my daughter, and one for the baby. We name them both Issi. I sleep with one every night - and she does the same. We decide it can be our way of staying connected. When we go to sleep and miss each other, we can hold Issi - and it’s almost like lying next to each other.


Tuesday, August 12th, 2025
In a whirlwind of tubes, wires, alarms, syringes, doctors, nurses, cleaning staff, text messages, small treats, crossword puzzles, and Tour de France stages, the days blend into one another. Nothing happens — and everything happens.

The tears are still there.
We do skin-to-skin, and I cry.
I talk on the phone, and I cry.
I make tea in the shared kitchen, and I cry.
I watch Wimbledon, and I cry. 

But the days pass - and the tears slowly become fewer.

Eventually, we are discharged. Sent off with flags, hugs and smiles from the staff. And suddenly, we are home. A family of four, with a baby. As if we had simply gone to the hospital, given birth, and returned home the next day. That’s what “normal” looks like.

At Membantu, we believe that honest stories help other parents feel less alone.

If you’ve experienced an unexpected start to parenthood yourself, you are always welcome to share your story with us.