Gunned down while pregnant
But could my unborn baby save both our lives?
Browsing the aisles of TK Maxx, I picked up a tiny blue jumper. ‘Perfect,’ I smiled, stroking my bump. It was March 2020, and me and my partner Tom, then 30, were shopping for our long-awaited baby boy. We’d met online four years earlier. Tom had been new to the area, and after meeting in November 2016, we’d hit it off. He was tall, handsome, and I was mesmerised by his deep-brown eyes. I was already a mum of four, so Tom moved in with me and was a great stepdad to my kids, then 18, 16, 15 and 3. A painter by trade, Tom redecorated my three-bed house. I’d lived there 11 years, but having new laminate floor and freshly painted walls made the house feel like our home. After two years, Tom and I started trying for a baby, I knew he’d make a great dad. I quickly fell pregnant, but a miscarriage at 8 weeks left us devastated. ‘Let’s keep trying,’ Tom insisted, and the following year, I fell pregnant again.
But this time, I miscarried at 10 weeks. Tom held me as I cried – at 38, I worried I was too old to have more children. I was a size-16, around 14st, so wondered if my weight could be a factor.
But when I fell pregnant again in September 2019, I was relieved to get through the first trimester.
And as my bump grew, I felt more confident this baby would survive.
At 20 weeks, we found out we were expecting a boy. Delighted, I bought a blue musical teddy bear for him.
And at six months gone, on 3 March 2020, Tom and I went shopping for clothes.
‘I love it,’ Tom grinned as I held up the blue jumper and he picked out a tiny shirt and jeans.
Back home, I made us steamed fish and mash. My appetite had doubled since I’d been pregnant, and I’d put on at least 1st. It didn’t bother me, though. As long as the baby was healthy.
By 9.30pm, I was exhausted and went to bed, but an hour later, I woke to loud knocking at the door. ‘Who is it?’ I called to Tom. Peering out of the window, I saw a local boy, just 16 – I was mates with his parents, had known him years.
The boy looked terrified as
he pointed to a white van that’d been following him.
The driver stared menacingly at Tom from across the road, yelling profanities.
I dialled 999 to report the incident and Tom ushered the boy inside.
He was a good lad, but there were some undesirable people in our area, and I didn’t want him caught up with the wrong crowd.
‘You’ll be OK,’ I soothed as I rang his parents to get him.
After, I sat on the sofa by the front door. Suddenly, there was a sound like fireworks in my front room.
Frozen with shock,
I looked down to see blood seeping from my chest.
I’ve been shot! I realised with horror.
‘Leona!’ Tom yelled. He was crying as he lay me on the floor, tried to stem the bleeding. He dialled 999 but choked on his words.
‘I’ve been shot!’ I yelled, grabbing the phone. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Blood was pouring from me, my baby squirming erratically. But all I could do was clutch my stomach, willing him to hold on.
‘Please survive,’ I whimpered, going into shock. I could feel no pain, but a burning sensation spread over me.
The ambulance arrived in minutes and I was rushed to The Royal London Hospital.
The doctors found six bullet fragments in my right arm, leg and breast. Removing them would leave me with severe nerve damage. Instead, I’d carry them with me forever.
But all
I cared about was my baby.
‘Is he OK?’ I pleaded. The wait was agonising. Fortunately, a scan showed he hadn’t been harmed, and Tom and I sobbed with relief.
The doctors said the fatty tissue around my organs had helped cushion the bullets, and I thanked my lucky stars.
My excess baby weight had saved both of our lives.
I spent a week in hospital on pain medication.
But, terrified the shooter would return, we moved straight after. After all the hard work we’d put into making our house a home, it was heartbreaking.
Our new place was miles from my parents, too.
Three months later, in June 2020, our healthy 7lb 7oz boy Leo was born. ‘Hello, baby,’ I smiled. My heart swelled with love. Looking at my perfect baby, it was hard to believe he’d been through such trauma.
That same month, a man was arrested in relation to the shooting. In the end, he was jailed for four years for drug offences. Unfortunately, the firearm charge was not proceeded with. I was gutted.
‘At least he’s off the streets,’ I said.
I didn’t have justice, even know why my house was peppered with bullets that night. But, still, I felt safer.
The kids, now 23, 21, 19 and 8 did, too – although thankfully none of them witnessed the shooting, it’d traumatised them all.
Especially the youngest, who had to move schools and misses her friends.
Sadly, Tom and I split six weeks after Leo was born. The stress was too much, but we’re on good terms and he’ll always be part of Leo’s life.
Now, I’ve slimmed to a size-14, and while I have scars, they’re a reminder of the day my brave baby saved my life.
Leo is my hero.
Frozen with shock, I looked down to see blood...