Faintly, there came a voice – a soft, masculine voice whispering, chanting. I had the vague sensation of choking on something and of a dream slipping away from the edges of my consciousness. The voice grew louder, the chanting taking shape, forming a sound I recognised – my name.
“Stacey, Stacey wake up, wake up now Stacey. Stacey, you have a new baby boy!”
I have a new baby boy.
I opened my eyes and looked around. The labour room – the room where everything had happened so fast. I was back there, but this time there was only me in the room, me and the gentle presence of who I would later find out, was the anaesthetist from my operation. I allowed my eyes to focus, before looking at him, letting him know that I was fully awake.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Stupidly, I croaked out the words, “I’m fine thank you”, when in reality I was far from it. I was in pain – a lot of it. My whole body was swollen from the anaesthetic and I was shaking, uncontrollably from the morphine I’d received. That, and the lack of baby.
“Where is my baby?”
“He is fine. Right now he is in the Neonatal Unit – your partner is in there now with him. You will be able to see him soon. Please, for now, get some rest. Everything will be explained to you.”
What would be explained to me, was that upon his birth, it was confirmed that my son had Oesophageal Atresia. This was found out, by inserting a tube down his oesophagus and x-raying where it sat. Unfortunately for him, it sat in a pouch, high up in his chest, instead of passing down into his stomach. My baby would not be able to feed. There was no way for him to get anything into his stomach. This news I was expecting to some degree. What I hadn’t counted on, was the second piece of new.
My baby had no anus.
There’s no polite way of putting it really. My son was born without the means to allow faecal matter to exit his body. It couldn’t go anywhere! This completely spun me out and all sorts of questions, raced around in my head. Not only could my son not feed, but he couldn’t poo either. How on earth was he going to live? You can’t really heed your doctor’s advice and rest, when you know that your newborn child may die without the proper treatment.
Yet I had no choice. I couldn’t see him yet. He was undergoing various examinations. A plan of action was being written and I didn’t have the faintest clue about what was going on. I hadn’t even had time to think about myself. I hadn’t yet seen my baby and all I wanted to do was to hold him close to me, and keep him safe from the pain and upset that he was about to face. All I could do though was wait. Wait, bed-bound, feverish and weak.
I didn’t sleep that night. I had gone from frozen and shaking, to a raging temperature. I couldn’t move, let alone get out of bed and the one thought in my mind, was of him. Finally, after 24 hours of his birth, they allowed me to be wheeled in on my bed to see him. I remember it as if it was a dream, floating along the corridor the clinical scent of the hospital in my nostrils, through big, blue, double doors into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, along another, shorter corridor into a dimly lit room and around a corner, and then…and then to my son.
The instant I saw him, the dam that I had built behind my eyelids burst and the tears pushed forward, in an uncontrollable torrent. Here was my beautiful, vulnerable, baby boy. So alone he seemed in that little plastic box – wires attached to all of his limbs, drips, tubes, bandages – it was so much to take in. Wheeled up beside his incubator, I was desperate to shelter him within my arms and, at last my wish was answered.
It was one of the single most memorable experiences of my life – made all the more memorable for what would follow.
That would be the first and last time, that I would hold him in my arms, for a while. The tube in his nose, would become part of every day life for us – a tube used to suck the saliva his mouth created, away from his oesophagus, preventing it from building up in his pouch and overflowing into his wind-pipe and into his lungs. It would be a vital part of his next four months in hospital, a simple thing that protected him from drowning in his own saliva and yet causing him pain at other times.
That night, they wheeled him into my room, all cosy, covered up and sleeping in a travel incubator. He was about to be sent to Bristol – where he would have vital surgery to fit a feeding tube, directly into his stomach and to create a stoma, which would enable his body, to rid itself of waste. Both would be temporary measures, to keep him alive while he got stronger, bigger and better able to cope with an even bigger, complicated piece of surgery that would await him and eventually get him on the road to recovery.
The following morning, 5 am to be precise, would see me struggle out of bed and on to my feet for the first time. I would push myself to use the toilet after the extraction of my catheter. I would determinedly shower, despite the blood all over the bathroom floor and the wound from my c-section gaping and weeping fluid. I would refuse the stretcher that would carry me to the vehicle, that would take me to where my son was waiting and where I would meet the wonderful surgeon, who would care for him for years to come. The one thing that occupied my mind, was to get there for him – to sign the papers that would give the go-ahead for his operation and to be there for him when he woke up.
I needed him to know that his mother would not abandon him, that I would be there by his side, no matter how much I was hurting myself. What I didn’t realise, was just how much I would be hurting and how isolated I would feel, being away from the people who I would need the most, to get me through it.
Please come back next week, when I will tell you about how me and Big Bro really did overcome those problems, along with his most crucial operation and as always, I welcome all of your comments.
If you are interested in reading the previous posts on our story, you may find them here:
Oesophageal Atresia, The Journey
Giving Birth Was Not What I Expected
Wow you really have been through the mill ;-( luckily I know the story ends well
I guess that’s the beauty of recollecting something like that. It’s not so hard to read, when you already know the outcome
Oh my gosh, this post made me well up a little! I can’t wait to read the next instalment.
So glad I found you, thanks to Mamasaurus! I had a special care baby too, but I consider myself very fortunate that because I had Joseph at 27 weeks I always knew he would be small, poorly and go into special care. To have a later gestation baby and find yourself in this foreign world is very hard.
I can’t wait to hear more of your story and how Big Bro overcame all his obstacles.
Thank you very much for reading and commenting! And you are right! Big Bro was 37.5 weeks when he was born, so was practically the largest baby in special care. In a way this almost alienated me from the other parents, who all had something in common, because they didn’t know what to say about his condition, when I answered their questions as to why he was there.
It was a very lonely time, but one that we did eventually overcome! Thank you again for taking the time to read!
Yes I do a lot of peer to peer counselling with later gestation mums, and provided a lot of support when we were in hospital too. It’s a very isolating experience and I think some mums of early gestation babies don’t understand that when it comes to baby wellness, gestational age is often irrelevant. Even doctors do it. We had a doctor who was sent in to help with a complex case, immediately made a bee line for our incubator as he assumed it was the 2lb baby that needed help, but he was here for the 8lb baby.
I am really enjoying reading through your blog, and so glad I have found it.
I think the problem with Big Bro, is that initially he was quite a big boy 6lb something, but then he lost a lot of birth weight, and now remains a very tall but very skinny boy. Scares the hell out of me when I see his ribs poking out, but he eats like a horse and never puts much weight on at all.
Going to make a start on your blog, once I’ve rescued one of the twins from the cupboard!
Thank you for sharing this… I saw the on my feed and though “that is one of the cutest babies I have seen in ages” and after reading he must also be such a brave little guy! Look forward to hearing the next part of the story :]
Thank you so much for the lovely comment, and for taking the time to read. I’ll be writing the next part, next week and hope you pop back to look at it
Just found your blog and wanted to stop by to wish you and your beautiful boy well. Time in neonatal care is difficult, however we hope you feel supported by everyone around you and online too. We look forward to keeping in touch with you, with very best wishes from all at http://www.teddyandme.co.uk
Hi and thank you for dropping by! You are right, spending time in neonatal care can be one of the most horrifying and lonely places, but there are some wonderful people out there who are only too willing to help. Will stop by your site when I have the time! Thank you again.
Such a touching post and such a strong mother you are. Much love to you and your little soldier xx
I didn’t feel strong at the time, but looking back now, I have to allow myself a little bit of credit. Thank you for the warm wishes and the next post will be up soon!
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We are delighted to let you know that this post has been nominated in the ‘Most Inspirational’ post category of the SWAN UK Blog Post Awards (aka The ‘SWANS’)
Be sure to pop over to the SWAN UK website to grab some badges for these categories to encourage your other readers to also vote for you – make sure you let them know which specific posts have been nominated!
If you tweet the SWAN UK twitter account using the #SWANS hashtag with the URL of your blog posts and the category you have been nominated for we will retweet it for you and hopefully get you some new readers.
Good luck!
http://www.undiagnosed.org.uk
Oh wow, thank you so much for letting me know – who would have thought that little old me would ever be nominated for an award!
This post resonated deeply with me on many levels, the shock, the news, the neonatal stint, the drive to do the best for your little one despite your pain.
What a string and incredible woman you are. I look forward to following your journey from now on.
Downs Side Up
Hayley Goleniowska recently posted…Silent Sunday
Thank you so much Hayley. Thankfully now, all is well – minus a few hiccups and hopefully my future posts on the subject will be a bit more positive.
Lilandrael recently posted…Saturday Is Caption Day
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What an inspirational post! No wonder it is a finalist in the SWAN blog post awards. I thought you would want to know that the winners will be announced on 13th April at 2pm as part of our Undiagnosed Children’s Awareness Day. Keep an eye on the SWAN UK blog or twitter where I will announce using @SWAN_UK and @RenataBplus3 … GOOD LUCK!
Renata recently posted…The very true story of the brave boy and his cowardly mother
Ah thank you so much! It just so happens to be the same day as my father’s birthday, so I won’t forget in a hurry! I hope the Undiagnosed Children’s Awareness day goes swimmingly well, and wish you all the best!