‘How is the new Mummy this morning then?’. The words could not have hurt more. I turned my head away from the breakfast bearing hospital auxiliary. She had obviously not been informed that I was on the labour ward for a D&C, not to give birth. Was it not enough that I had to see heavily pregnant women waddle down the corridor ahead of me, hear their puffing and groaning, and later hear the cries of their newborn babies in neighbouring rooms? On leaving the ward later that morning, I looked at my feet rather than into the excited eyes of flower laden fathers, on their way to visit their…