The night before I was due to give birth, I wrote a letter to my daughter, one of many that I had penned throughout my pregnancy. An extract follows:

Last night, I had a dream I was in the ocean. The water was warm, and its buoyancy relieved the weight of you against my spine. When I caressed my protruding belly, I realised the texture of my skin had changed. Rub one way and it was smooth, rub the opposite way and a roughness brushed my palm. My skin was covered in brilliant scales, different shades of the rainbow. Colours merged together with sophistication; gold, maroon, sapphire blue, rose, aqua, rust and fire orange. I could have stayed there, gazing at my second skin, but then I heard my name being called from behind. I turned and saw Mum – your grandmother. She was swimming towards me. It began to rain – water above us and water below. I decided to float, facing upward at the sky, consumed by a strange feeling. It was as if I became the water and the water became me. There was no beginning and no end. We were one body, the water, Mum, you and me.

In July of this year, my doctor suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. It felt as if I had lost the raft that was keeping me afloat – that I had lost someone who made the unpredictable and often volatile world of chronic illness seem manageable. His passing left me with an exquisite agony. I feel his absence each day, and yet, when I look at my daughter, I am reminded of the inexplicably beautiful parts of life.

His passing left me with an exquisite agony. I feel his absence each day, and yet, when I look at my daughter, I am reminded of the inexplicably beautiful parts of life.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to visit our doctor’s grave. His resting place overlooks the sea. The same sea that I watch from the window above my desk as I write this. Each day I look at the water, I am reminded of all that carried me through this passage to becoming a mother. One day, I will tell my daughter about this journey of how she came to be and of each moment that is like a circle, joining what has come before with what is present and what will come after.