trauma

A week ago, I woke at 03:30 and shuffled from the ward I was in to the neo-natal unit where our son was hopefully recovering from a procedure to drain air and fluid from around his right lung. (The doctors believe that this was caused when he aspirated meconium (poo) at birth. He cried almost as soon as his head came out, but his breathing was labored. Paul was allowed to cut the cord, but instead of immediately putting him on my chest, he was vigorously cleaned and then moved to a table and surrounded by doctors who introduced themselves to us and explained what they were doing as they worked. As I walked the quiet hall and took the elevator down, I thought about the times I’d made hospital visits to friends and family in the past, always with a dread at being in a hospital, obligation to the person in the hospital, and eager to get the visit over with so I could leave. None of those feelings went with me on that walk to Tim. I was relieved to be just a few floors away from him and willing to stay in the hospital every minute of every day until he went home with me. Obligation did not cause me to wake and walk, only genuine concern. I think that’s when I began to know that I was a mother, that I’d feel that way if Tim was in the hospital, or jail, or lost, or anywhere conceivable. Despite my fear and anxiety over his condition, I was bathed in a joy that has no words, a love beyond measure.

Dad and Timothy with just his feeding tube

Looking back on the experience now, Paul and I have talked of how we never feared for his life, only that he’d have a health condition that would go with him through life. The care that Tim received was so solid, so tangible, that we didn’t doubt recovery. And that care extended to us through nurses and doctors who asked about our well-being, eagerly gave us information, and encouraged us to call, visit, and ask questions. We didn’t get to hold or touch him until Sunday, and that was hard. I saw him Saturday night just before they did the procedure on his lung. He’d been given morphine and a drug that paralyzed him. He often sleeps in the position he was in at that moment, and I will forever be reminded of him in the incubator with a ventilator in his mouth, a feeding tube coming out of his nose, a drip attached to his hand, and a monitoring device on his foot. The next time I saw him at 03:30, he was sleeping on his left side, blankets supporting his legs and back, the drain in his side a rude addition to the other tubes. The problem was gone and now we just had to wait for him to heal.

When Paul arrived after doctor’s rounds Friday morning, we asked about how long he’d be in the hospital. The answer was hard to take, ‘probably not two months, but maybe two weeks.' This uncertainty was unnerving, but we were allowed to put our hands into his incubator and touch him. The warmth of his body, the affirmation that this precious vision before us was a physical reality erased the trepidation that came with that uncertain news and helped us focus on the steps he had to take to recover: another chest x-ray to confirm that the lung was clear, close the drain with no change, remove the drain, breath unassisted, no infection. These milestones could have taken days and weeks, but passed in just 24 hours. We were given good news every time we saw him that day. The neo-natal unit has four nursury’s numbered 1-4. One and two are intensive care. Four is for babies on their way home. He was moved on Saturday from nursery one to nursery four, and elation flooded our bodies like a transfusion. I was taught how to express milk in preparation for the removal of his feeding tube. Sunday, they offered us a room on the ward, en-suite with a TV even. We got expert advice on everything from diaper changes to breastfeeding. The nurses kept a watchful eye on us but also gave us space and time to learn. They were cheerleaders and gurus.
Mom and Timothy in our room at the hospital

The decision to send us home came quickly after his tube was removed and he and I proved that we knew how to breastfeed. His ears were tested, we were given a short course in baby CPR, and our car seat was checked and approved. The NHS isn’t perfect, but it was for us this time, and that means something. Since I’ve been home, I’ve been visited by midwifes, a neo-natal nurse and a community health care advisor who will make home visits for the first five years of Tim’s life. The midwifes will come every day for the first ten days of Tim’s life if it’s necessary. Because he’s feeding so well, they are only coming four times, but I can call and request a visit any time until next week.

Mom, Dad and Timothy at one week old