5 days left

In just 5 days, I will no longer have a 2 year old, but will have a 3 year old instead. It makes me feel very emotional, because I just can't believe that almost 3 years ago, I had the most eventful day (and following week) of my life. Just two months ago, we celebrated Christopher's 1st birthday. It was a wonderful day, and unlike Robert's 1st (and 2nd) birthday, I did not get emotional at all. I guess because with Christopher, the birth experience was a joyful experience to me, and it all went wonderfully. I find myself getting that burning welling-up sensation in my throat and eyes just thinking about Robert's birthday. I guess his birthdays mean so much more to me because we almost lost him, because when he was born, we thought we HAD already lost him. The memory of what happened one, two, and now three years previously is still etched in my mind, and while it is becoming more distant, it will always be a reality for me.

After the ride in the ambulance, legs and feet sticky with blood from the birth, in a nightie and dressing gown over the top, sliding around on an uncomfortable seat, where I found it hard to really come to terms with what had happened, nor the baby in the carry case beside me with the paramedic, I spent the journey stealing little glances at him, while trying not to fall off the seat, my mind numb. I distinctly remember the midwife who came into the ambulance with us telling me that it was "ok" for me to cry. Did she really think I was holding back tears to appear brave? When we finally got to hospital, I was put into a wheelchair, and Robert was whisked off to SCBU. I was taken into a room, my legs cleaned a bit, and then assessed for pereneal damage, and consequently stitched up. While I was there (not while I was actually being stitched up though, thankfully) the doctors came and gave an overview on what was happening with Robert, I remember laying there in emotional numbness, being told that my son might end up with brain damage, that they would need to monitor him and that he would need furthur tests. My mum came in during the stitches, which she found rather disconcerting, seeing some woman's head between my legs haha! But I was glad at the distraction she provided. She told me that Jonathan's parents had arrived, and had gone to see Robert and Jonathan. I asked her to phone my dad and let him know.

After it was all done, I was allowed to bath, and it was lovely slipping into the hot water, and strangely therapeutic to see the bath water turning red as my body became clean. Thankfully, after a while, Jonathan poked his head in, and I asked him to help me out. I felt so weak I had to get him to help dry me, and then as my nightie I wore to the hospital was covered in blood, I put on a rather fetching hospital gown, luckily I was going back into the wheelchair. Jonathan wheeled me to the SCBU, to see Robert properly for the first time.



I was greeted with a baby in an incubator, strapped up in wires to his hands, feet, and one on his chest, monitoring blood flow, oxygen levels, breathing, and temperature, and administering fluids and antibiotics. I was told that this was my baby, but he didn't feel like mine.

I can't remember whether it was before or after I went in to see him that I saw Jonathan's parents in the little waiting room outside the SCBU. I was there in the wheelchair, and chatted lightheartedly with them. It was so surreal. I guess it was after, because surely Jonathan would have taken me in straight away.

That night Jonathan spent the night in my room with me. I was glad, we spent the night crying with each other. The emotions finally caught up with me, having seen the baby they said was mine, that he was alive, and in no immediate danger to his life, although the severity of his brain damage was yet to be seen. We cried for all that had happened that day, for all that might happen in the future. We were given a private room, thank goodness. I heard babies crying from the wards during the following days, which cut me, but not too deeply, as I knew even though he wasn't next to me, he was ok.

The next day, I put the baby to my breast. I wanted to breastfeed, I told the nurses in SCBU that. But it didn't feel as I thought it would.



Still, every four hours I would go down and put the baby to my breast. Sometimes he would take it, sometimes he wouldn't. When the doctors told me they wanted to give him formula until my milk came in, I told them it was ok, as long as it wasn't given by bottle. So they taught us how to feed him by cup.



After a few days (or what felt like it), the doctors and nurses told us it was exhausting him to cup feed, so they inserted a tube down his nose to feed him the formula. They showed us how to do this too, by pulling out some stomach fluid with the syringe, to test the acidity (to check that it was in his stomach and hadn't come out), before pushing the formula through the tube down into his stomach. Before each formula "feed", he would have a nappy change, which was interesting when he was in the incubator and you had to try and do it with your hands through the arm holes, then I would put him to the breast, and then he would have the formula. Eventually he latched correctly, and at 4 days post-partum, when my milk came in, they took out the tube and told me he could have just my milk from then on. During the first few days I did only go down when I had to, every 4 hours, for the feeds. I knew I could go down more often, but I didn't want to. Something that thinking back made me feel very guilty, but given my emotional state I guess it wasn't unsurprising.

On the Thursday I believe it was, Robert and I went by ambulance with the neonatal nurse Angela to Northampton General, to have an EEG taken of Robert's brain activity. It all came back normal, and while it was done he was good as gold, and nursed to keep him calm and happy. When we got back to Kettering, Angela showed me how to bathe him, as he needed one - well a hair wash really, as the EEG had made his hair sticky. That afternoon he came up with me back into my room. His feeding tube was out by then of course, and there he was in the cot, in my room, all feeds and all nappy changes and all comforting was MINE.



That was when he started to feel like MINE I think, while he was in SCBU it felt like I was borrowing him, sitting with someone else's baby. When he came upstairs with me, part of me couldn't believe it, I kept staring at him, thinking "wow, he's mine, he's really mine!" but still didn't feel right picking up up to cuddle him.



Finally, at 6 days old, Robert was signed off and we got him ready to take home. It felt strange, like we were being given keys to someone else's house. I knew it was OK that we take Robert, he was ours, we had permission, but it didn't feel quite "right" if you know what I mean?

Robert was asleep the entire time we got him dressed to go, and all the way home and stayed asleep until early hours the next morning.



Reliving it all makes it seem crazy to me that this was three years ago. That that baby is now a boy, a completely normal 3 year old boy in every respect. We are so lucky that despite everything, he had no brain damage whatsoever (well, there is always the possibility of some learning difficulties in the future, but nothing outside the normal parametres that any child could have).

From this...



To this...



Wow. Tell me again, where has the time gone?