Guy Windsor came to Finland in 2001 to open the School of European Swordsmanship, and has been swinging swords and writing books ever since. He lives in Helsinki with his wife and two daughters.

Perhaps the most telling question for an expatriate is “would choose to have kids here?” And for those that already have children, if your child’s life is in danger, do you think “I wish I was back home”?

Last Christmas I discovered my answers to those questions. My wife was 39 weeks pregnant with our second daughter when she was taken into hospital with pre-eclampsia. So, when her placenta ruptured, she was in the right place, and was in surgery minutes after passing out from blood loss. I arrived at the hospital to find her room a mess of scattered equipment, with a clear path to the door and her bed gone.

A nurse found me, and explained (in perfect English) that Michaela had lost consciousness and was in surgery. I know that an emergency caesarian takes about 20 minutes, so when I was still waiting 45 minutes later, it was clear that things had not gone well.

A midwife came to tell me that I had a daughter. My initial reaction was “yes, I know, she’s at home being looked after by her godfather, what about my wife?” but before I said anything, I realised that she meant I had another one. She had been born unconscious, having lost blood and been deprived of oxygen, and was in the intensive care unit at the children’s hospital next door. My wife was still being operated on as the bleeding had not stopped.

I went to see the baby, and talked to the doctors there. She was already on a respirator, and had dozens of wires coming out of her.

The odd thing was, I wasn’t worried. There was a risk of brain damage, of course, but that’s true of any birth. I just felt that everything that could or should be done was being done, so I was free to focus on Michaela, whose condition was not nearly so stable. The nurse took a photo of the baby and gave it to me. I went back to the waiting room.

After about an hour, a doctor came to tell me that she was in critical condition, and about two hours later, the same doctor came to tell me she would live.

In all that time, I never once thought “I wish we were back in Britain”.

In the ten days before my girls came home, the thought still hadn’t crossed my mind. My enduring image of new-born Katriina is of one of

her nurses gently stroking her while talking to me about a procedure she was about to do. Across from Katriina was another little baby, being held on a nurse’s chest.

Whatever else may be said about Finnish culture, they believe absolutely that babies need love. They will even cite studies to prove it. They make every effort to get the parents involved, even in the ICU (changing a nappy in an incubator without fouling the wires is pretty tricky). And these highly competent, busy professional people seemed to love my little girl. As a parent, nothing could be more reassuring.

A year on, both Katriina and Michaela seem none the worse for their experience, and this Christmas seems set to be much less dramatic than last. Thinking about what we owe to the state-funded medical services here, I smile quietly as I pay my taxes.