I was 32 weeks pregnant. I had just got back from a short morning walk and went to the loo when I got in. I noticed the trickling sound went on for ever. When I looked down, the bowl was ruby red with blood.

It seemed a bit odd but I wasn’t worried. It didn’t hurt. I grabbed a bath towel, stuffed it between my legs, pulled my joggers up and waddled to the phone.

When I called the GP, I told the receptionist I’d had some bleeding. She asked if it was just spotting and how far along I was. I said I was 32 weeks, no spotting, more of a trickle.

There was a short silence. I thought she would take my name and book me an appointment for that afternoon, but instead, she said she would put me straight through to a doctor immediately. It was my own doctor she reached. My doctor asked if I was on my own; I said yes. Calmly, she told me to go and undo the latch on my front door and then to sit back down but stay on the phone while she asked some questions.

If it was easier, I said, I could get my mum to bring me down to the surgery. Still calm, she told me I should probably ask my mum to meet me at the hospital, as she had already called an ambulance.

“Where’s the baby’s father?” she asked, and I said he was working. She answered: “It might be nice to have him with you – why don’t you give him a call when the paramedics arrive?”

They arrived as we were talking and my doctor asked to speak to them. By coincidence, a friend arrived unexpectedly at the same time as the ambulance and rang my boyfriend and my mum for me.

At this point, I was very tired and getting cold. Both the towel between my legs and my joggers were soaked. I remember the paramedic checked the toilet and the towel, then looked at the other paramedic. They said they would pop me on a stretcher. I said there was no need, I could walk, but she nicely but firmly said I had no choice in the matter.

I don’t recall much else except for getting in the ambulance and the lights and sirens. The next thing I remember was being in a room, the bag of blood hanging there, the tube going into my arm. Everything was white. The sheets were white, the walls were white. I was white – and I’m pretty pale anyway. I have a photograph my boyfriend took of me later that day, and I just fade into the bedding. It turns out I had lost a significant amount of blood.

The nurse told me the baby was fine almost immediately, and that I’d had two units of blood and they were doing another two, but I was lucky I got to hospital so quickly. From me phoning the surgery to arriving at hospital was probably only 20 minutes.

I cannot thank that receptionist enough for putting me straight through to my doctor, and I cannot thank my doctor enough for the calm, measured manner in which she ensured the paramedics could get to me. Even when she said they were on their way, I didn’t fully grasp how serious it was.

I remained in hospital until my daughter was born prematurely, five weeks later. She’s now 19 years old.

People underestimate the vital role support staff play. Two lives were saved that day because a receptionist thought to check it wasn’t just a bit of spotting, because my GP was able to speak to me immediately, and because paramedics arrived within minutes.

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