I'm spinning in complete darkness apart from one tiny dot of light that blinks at regular intervals. Now the light expands and begins to pulsate, like a giant amoeba, and a shadowy but recognisable figure emerges from the light.

'Too soon, Tidge,' my grandmother utters my pet name and I feel her deep love in her celery scented embrace. I need to stay with her, talk and laugh with her but she keeps on whispering, 'Too soon. Too soon.'

And as the light widens, erasing outer edges of darkness, her fingers, like a silky caress, stroke my cheeks, stemming frozen tears. Then she diminishes and the light diminishes with her and I'm spinning backwards into darkness until the rotations slow and come to a gentle halt.

At the squeeze on my cold hand, I open my eyes to meet the fraught gaze of my husband. 'Thank God,' he gasps as relief swamps his features.

A nurse hurries over, checks a tube where blood runs through and a clutch of panic has me croaking through dry lips, 'Where's my baby?'

My husband leans over. Kisses my forehead, saying, 'Our little girl is fine. She weighed in at seven pounds two ounces. Looks just like you, my pet.'