At seven months pregnant, on Christmas Eve 2020, Grace Victory was diagnosed with a severe case of Covid. Having her baby boy early was his only chance of survival. And, shortly after the birth, being put into an induced coma was Grace’s only chance of survival. This is what it ’s like to die and live to tell the tale.
There’s a dead body. It’s floating down a river. The body is somewhere in Reading, but I don’t know why. Everything is blurry and unclear. The body is my own. But it’s deep in my subconscious, where all my darkest thoughts are playing out. My physical body is hooked up to monitors in the intensive care unit of a London hospital.
I can’t move, I can’t fight, I can’t scream. There’s nothing I can do to shut down the thoughts.
Lying in that hospital bed, I was fighting for my life. People imagine that being in a coma is nothingness, just black, but it wasn’t. And I consented to it, although I have no memory of that. But I did. I consented to being put in a medically induced coma mere days after my first baby, Cyprus, was born. On Christmas Eve, I had my boy and by Boxing Day, I was in a coma with just a 5% chance of survival.
When the pandemic hit in March 2020, and the world was put on pause, I loved being curled up on the sofa watching films with my partner, Lee. I fell pregnant in May that year and was so excited. I’d always dreamed of being a mum. When I knew there was a baby growing inside me, I was elated. And I loved being pregnant. I tried not to worry about the pandemic. I didn’t know anything other than going to appointments by myself. I just got on with it. I did what everyone else was doing –I wore a mask, I washed my hands and barely went outside. Looking back, I chastise myself – did I do enough? Maybe I shouldn’t have left the house at all. I think, as women, there’s a tendency to always blame yourself.
Everything changed one Wednesday in December 2020. I just didn’t feel right. I know my body, and I knew it wasn’t pregnancy hormones. The following morning, I woke up with a fever. By Friday, I was sitting in a Covid test centre. I remember driving away and my boyfriend asking if
I thought I had it. I said yes and he replied, ‘I do, too.’ Little did we know what would happen next.
By Saturday, I couldn’t keep down food or take a deep breath. After calling 111, I was told to go to the hospital. On the drive there, I couldn’t stop crying. By Christmas Eve it was confirmed: I had a severe case of Covid. The nurses told me my oxygen levels had become dangerously low, and for both of us to stand a chance of survival, there was only one option. Two months too soon, it was time for my baby to be born.
I know people have traumatic C-sections, but I
