Savannah Part two – Tea and Toast angels

Savannah ward became my home for the next six days until Zach would have his first surgery. We had no idea it would take that long before his operation but he was a tricky little critter and so posed a conundrum for the doctors. For six days I stayed on the Savannah ward with Zach day and night.

The first two nights I had the hospital bed that sat upright in the bay next to Zach’s. The nurses pulled the curtains around to make us one giant bay together. The first two nights I managed at least two hours of comfortable sleep. The third night the ward was full so I had to sleep on the pull-down bed next to Zach’s cot. That night I remember so distinctly. I was laying on the bed shivering and shaking from the urinary tract infection I had. I was wrapped up in two hospital blankets, but I was still icy cold. I had an upset stomach and kept getting up to have to go to the toilet as everything was simply passing through me. (TMI.) And Zach was not feeding very well. He was feeding constantly or just sleeping for too long and his blood sugar would then drop. By the time the morning arrived I was a wreck. Then an angel nurse came in and saw me crying over Zach’s cot at the start of her shift. He was sound asleep and I was drowning him in my tears. She promptly pulled the curtains around us and stated ‘I am getting you some tea and toast.’ I nodded unable to speak. I leant back over his cot again and continued to cry. She reappeared later with the tea and toast.

“I’m sorry” I mumbled. Wiping snot from my nose.

“I haven’t slept and I am ill and I have a bad stomach and I can’t help myself I just keep crying.” I blurted out all at once. Angel nurse stood calmly and listened to me as I droned on about my poor self and how much I felt like I couldn’t look after Zach. I thought He was upset all the time. That I didn’t know if we were doing the right things for him. She listened and listened as I cried my way through an onslaught of emotions. I finally managed to pause and drink some tea.

“It’s a really good tea. Thank you” I told her.

“The trick is to use two tea bags.” She smiled at me and somehow, I felt better. Her kindness and the tea had brought back some sense of logic.

“Can you watch him whilst I have a shower?” I asked her. And of course, she did.

The angel nurse that day took care of me just as much as she did Zach. We started talking about many things and somehow my day lifted. It took me away from what was happening in front of me. I will be forever grateful to her.

Some of the nurses on Savannah were the kindest people I have ever met. I honestly don’t know how they did it. How they keep their patience. How they deal with seeing sick babies’ day after day. The Savannah ward is a unique place. A sort of microcosm. An ecosystem all of its own. It became my whole world and the nurses, my friends. Myself and Emmanuel had nick-names for some of them as we couldn’t remember all of their names. One was ‘Team leader.’ As she seemed to be the one that everybody was friends with. She was the Queen bee of the group when she was in. There was ‘Social Media’ who was often on her phone. We overheard her once asking a colleague what emoji she should send to a guy she was talking to. Each nurse had their own way of doing things as well. It was a game during shift changeovers to see which nurse we would get. I loved messaging Emmanuel and saying, ‘Today is going to be a good day, we have one of our favourites again’. At night If I had a nurse that I trusted (which was most of them) I would ask them to do one of Zach’s feeds for me if I was asleep so that I could get at least four hours sleep. They would often sneak into the bay and do just that. Letting me get some much-needed rest. They would say ‘well we have to be awake so we might as well do it. But you need some sleep.’ 

As the days on Savannah wore on, my time there started to get to me. I was going back to Ronald MacDonald House (our accommodation) in the afternoon and getting a two-hour nap. Then about four hours at night if I was lucky. Which sounds great for a new mum, but I wasn’t at home. I couldn’t lounge on the sofa all day, or call my mum or mother in law to come and help me. I had to sit and wait for the doctor’s rounds. I had to try and take in the information they gave. I watched Zach’s machines as they beeped away all day. I kept track in my head the of all the numbers. I was constantly on high alert. I think my cortisol stress hormone levels were probably through the roof! Plus, I was recovering from my own surgery. Every time I lifted Zach out of his cot, I could feel my wound pull. I would wince with pain as I pulled myself up from the low-down beds to stand up. My feet were swollen and puffy. My body ached for a proper bed and I cried constantly. I was a mess. But I looked around and every other parent there was in the same position as me.

All the parents dealt with things differently. Some would keep to themselves and watch their phones all day long. Others would chat to everybody they could. Some started to take it out on each other. I heard one distinctive argument from a couple that I will never forget. I wish I hadn’t have overheard it, but we all deal with things differently and I guess that was their way. One night on a ward together and you know the sound of every body’s snores, their babies cry and each person’s toilet habits during the night. You get very comfortable very quickly. Let’s face it they all saw me wandering around with a bra and maternity pjs on all day. I was constantly breastfeeding and had no care for covering up. So, they probably thought of me as the crazy, breastfeeding, crying woman.

There is a parent’s room at the end of the ward on Savannah. A haven for parents to step away from the bay when needed. To make a cup of tea or to store food. To be honest It wasn’t the nicest room in the world. It did have a lovely big open window that looked across to St Thomas’ Hospital building which is quite beautiful. I stood by that window and cried when Zach had his blood tests done. I stood by that window when I just needed to breathe after another day with no news. I stood by that window listening to hear if Zach had woken up. It was a good window.

The parent’s room also became the place of small talk. ‘How was your night?’ ‘Are the stitches out yet?’ and ‘ah fantastic she had her feeding tube out.’ Were common conversational topics. At first, it was really scary to talk to other parents. I felt as though I wasn’t qualified to be there. But I soon realised nobody was. We were all new to this. Or most of us were. Most babies on this ward were cardiac babies, all under a month old. Some were older. But I only saw one child who was older than five and she was only in for the day. That’s the nature of the ward and the specialism in the hospital. It all happens when babies are firstborn. So, unless someone had an older child then we were all very new to this. The nurses knew more than us. Heck, even the kids knew what was going on more than we did. It is scary being a first-time parent, then being a first-time parent to a cardiac baby.

Soon those small conversations became mood lifters. A little chat about progress during the time the kettle boiled could lift a whole morning. Often, I would feel as though Zach wasn’t like the others and as he hadn’t come in and then gone for surgery. But as I got talking, I realised it was common for babies to take longer, or to come back later. It made me feel better to know it wasn’t just us. The same for when I was feeling as though Zach was doing really well. Another parent would need me to reassure them. I Would tell them that we had been here a week and that it does get easier. We were all in the same boat, floating down the Savanah River.

Postpartum and morphine

Gracious Mummy blog

The thing they don’t tell you about the postpartum hormones is this: They suck. Yes, you are overwhelmed with love for you baby but you also feel like absolute crap. So that is to be expected right? You have just had a major operation. You are not at home right away and you can’t even think about your body functioning normally! Your baby has to be lifted to you. You can’t shower on your own and you are desperately trying to work out the whole booby, milk, breastfeeding thing. (Or formula measurements.) But what I have never once heard anybody speak about is the morphine plus hormone cocktail that creates a six-day high before you crash into a big pile of poo! At the time I didn’t realise it, but looking back I was clearly high for six days straight after birth!

I was being wheeled across the ward to see my baby. I was given three ok-ish meals a day. I had my partner taking such good care of me. I was floating around. Oblivious to the fact that our first night on the ward I was the only mum who didn’t have her baby next to her. I heard one crying in the night and thought nothing of it. The next morning, I woke up and put on make-up! Then I took selfies. I sent one to my best friend. First full day of being a mum. I captioned it. I didn’t even have my baby with me. I was delirious and full of adrenaline probably. I had slept for about an hour. Between still having the catheter in and the pain when the medication wore off, I could not rest. That and there was also a man in a chair next to his partner, snoring his head off in the cubicle next to us. I mean, bless him he must have been so tired. But wow he was loud.

I was wheeled across to see Zach and for some reason, the situation had not sunk in. I was seeing the world in front of me, but I wasn’t seeing reality.

Then day six hit and a tsunami of emotions took me down. I was breastfeeding constantly and I mean constantly. I woke up at 7am and picked up my baby. I put him to the breast. He fed on and off until 10am! A minute on and a minute off. For three straight hours. I did not know this at the time (I was told afterwards by a midwife) but when you breastfeed your hormones surge. Prolactin is one, which releases the milk. But to do this, dopamine has to stop. Dopamine is the happy hormone. So momentarily you feel like crap. But if you are feeding constantly, you feel like crap constantly. Then on top of this, oxytocin goes crazy so that you bond. But that feeling can be a bit too much and well the result was a lot of tears. I cried over Zach so much in those first few days he must have thought it was raining. At 10am I managed to put him down in his cot for long enough to have a shower. When I came back a nurse was rocking his cot as he had woken up and “was a hungry chap.” I could have crumbled down into a heap on the ward floor there and then. How could he be hungry? He had just fed for three hours straight. I smiled at the nurse and thanked her. I lifted my screaming baby and held him in my arms trying to comfort him. The wires and infusion lines came too, of course. I put him to my breast. He latched and the after two minutes fell asleep. I put him back in his cot. He screamed, so I fed him. And so on for thirty minutes until I gave up and just let him sleep and feed on my boobs. I was exhausted. On top of all of this Emmanuel had to sort out some food for us and go about buying some nappies and a few other things we needed. He wasn’t there until later on day six. My mum came to help me. But there wasn’t much she could do other than hand me my water bottle and hold Zach whilst I went to the toilet.

Day six also happened to be the day I was told I had a UTI. I was given antibiotics. No wonder I had been feeling awful.

In the afternoon I was told that my beautiful son, who had been feeding all day, had low blood sugars. It didn’t make any sense! I must be doing something wrong? They came to take his blood every hour from around 2pm onwards. This involved pricking his heel and squeezing the blood out onto a thin strip that goes into a small handheld machine. The number pops up. 1.8. it’s too low. Keep feeding him they tell me. Like I am sat there twiddling my thumbs.

By the time Emmanuel got there around 4pm, I was a state. I was crying constantly. Telling anyone that would listen that I had a UTI and that my baby just wasn’t feeding properly. I had no idea what was going on but this felt like torture.

Did I also mention that I had stopped taking the morphine and the dihydrocodeine? That’s right I was going cold turkey. I had been on these meds for five days, every three to four hours. Then I stopped them just like that. On the same day that your hormones take a dip and you ride the lowest low possible. It was a dark day. The morphine and the codeine had been masking some of the hormonal and emotional surges. I am certain that I was feeling a slow build to this day and yet I was numb around it. The second I stopped the numbing agent everything hit me.

I stood by Zach’s cot with Emmanuel and my mum and cried as they told us they needed to take more bloods. I had no privacy to cry. No bed to go and lay down on for five minutes. I just had a noisy ward, an armchair and two very loving supporters who could do nothing for me. It was uncontrollable. Surprisingly, I felt no embarrassment. I didn’t care that everybody was seeing me at my worst.

I slept on the ward again that night. Or laid down and cried. One kind nurse suggested to me to express and she would give him a bottle so I could get a few hours’ sleep. I did. I expressed just enough for one full bottle of 41ml. He guzzled it down so fast it was like he hadn’t been feeding at all in the last 24 hours. I was so confused. He finally settled and slept. I slept and woke after two hours to see the nurse feeding him. I expressed again. We continued the cycle until the morning. I had managed a few hours’ sleep and felt a little better. Zach had a full tummy and his blood sugar was up slightly. He was clearly not getting enough from the breast.

All of this, the blood sugar, the pain meds, the breastfeeding, The damn hormones. They all came at once. They all hit me like a flood. I have never in my life felt so powerless to what was happening to me. Day six for me was just as the midwives later told me it would be. The worst day. The classic postpartum ‘everything goes wrong’ day. But for me, I did it whilst on display on a ward with nurses flittering around and doctors telling me different bits of information. I had support but all I wanted that day was to crawl into my own bed and sleep.

I remember one of the male doctors walking past and my nurse quickly asked him what to do for Zach. “She is feeding him too much. It should be every three hours.” He barked at her over his shoulder as he disappeared into his office. The nurse came over to tell me what he had said. So, we tried that and Zach’s blood sugars dropped again. It was the worst advice I was ever given.

It turned out Zach had a tongue tie that nobody did anything about. Because Zach could latch, they all assumed he was fine. This was why he couldn’t get enough milk. His tongue tie wasn’t sorted out until months later. He was too old by then. I expressed and bottle-fed him. Sadly, my breastfeeding journey was a tough one. Maybe I should have just carried on with the morphine for a little longer. 😊

The Savannah

When Zach was born, we were in the neonatal intensive care unit and then the HDU neonatal unit at St Thomas’ Hospital. We then moved over to the HDU on the Savannah ward at the Evelina Children’s Hospital. Its very confusing, but the first HDU is next to the labour wards so parents are next to their babies. Savannah is a part of the Evelina hospital – in a whole other building!

We were moved to the Savannah ward late one evening in the first week of being at the hospital. Myself and Emmanuel call the Savannah ward, The Jungle. It is pretty wild. Imagine a large room with six cots all containing tiny babies. Next to the cots are the worried parents and walking back and forth between them are the nurses and doctors. Each bay has a blue curtain that pulls around your allotted little space. Inside that space, that is perhaps the size of a small shed, are two chairs a storage cabinet, a table and a mountain of medical infusions and monitors. Plus, two suitcases, three bags, breast pump equipment, shoes and a coat. Then imagine living in that space whilst trying to breastfeed your brand-new baby. The nurses have their desk area right next to the first cubicles. There is also the doctor’s office, scanning room, toilets and shower. It was as Emmanuel called it ‘The wild, wild west.’

When it was time to move across, we were walked from St Thomas’ to the Evelina with our two nurses and a student nurse. It was the first time Zach had seen the outside world. He looked around from his cot as we passed through glass corridors, taking in the blue sky, before falling asleep. He then slept for the rest of the walk. We were taken through the old part of the hospital where they have the teaching areas. There is a display case of old medical equipment. ‘The iron lung’ and other old ventilators. They looked like torture devices and sent a shiver down my spine. It made me think that medicine had a pretty brutal history. Street doctors that hacked off limbs and dentists that pulled out teeth with big metal plyers. What about the people that had been hooked up to those old machines, had they lived? Had any of this horror movie looking stuff worked? A movie scene popped into my head; the man had been strung out by his organs but he was being kept alive by machines. His intestines hanging on hooks. His heart beating out in front of him. I physically shook my head and tried to concentrate on Zach. He looked peaceful in his cot. Like an emperor on a travelling throne being brought across his land. All these people here for him and he was blissfully sleeping.

We arrived at the Savannah. As Emma and Emily dropped us off, I hugged them both. I had grown very attached to them in my days in the HDU. Our Savannah nurse came over to introduce herself. The HDU nurses were explaining to her about Zach’s medication and infusions. My heart quickened. Why didn’t she know this stuff? Were we safe here? Was Zach’s careful care going to be messed up? I started asking questions. My anxiety started to rise. In HDU you have two babies per one nurse. Here the nurses can have three babies at a time and there are six bays. I was so scared that something was going to go wrong. I was becoming prickly; I didn’t know how things worked here. A heath care assistant came over to help us ‘move in’ and when she started to move the breast pump machine out of the way to get to the plugs behind it I started almost yelling at her.

“I NEED THAT, you can’t take it!” So, I wasn’t quite yelling, but I certainly wasn’t nice to her. She explained that she was just moving it. I thought she meant moving it away from my area so I continued to tell her that she can’t. Emmanuel stepped in to explain what the lady meant. I stood back and let her finish. I felt awful. She was only trying to help me. The next day when I saw her again I apologised for how I had spoken to her. I explained that I was really unsettled being moved across and I was just feeling really anxious. She was lovely and thanked me for apologising. We actually got on quite well and started joking with each other about miscommunications. I didn’t see her much after this, but I would smile at her when she was around and she to me. “Well done.” My mum said to me after I apologised to the woman. It doesn’t matter how old you are but hearing well done from your parents always means something. “Thanks mum, she really didn’t deserve how I spoke to her. It was only fair.” Yes mum, I am a grown up after all!

Each bay has a pull-down bed next to the patient’s bed for a parent to sleep on. It is tucked into the wall. It is a few wooden slats with a thin foam mattress on top. It reminded me of the mats that you get in sports halls for PE. Where you line them up and do forward rolls and cartwheels across them. They are great, but not for sleeping on.

When the nurses switched over and our night time nurse came over she offered me a proper hospital bed in the bay next to Zach’s. There was nobody in there and she knew I was just a few days post-surgery myself. I could have kissed her. She pulled the curtains around us to make one big giant bay. For the first time I got to sleep next to my baby boy. The hospital beds elevate at the head end so that I could sleep sitting up. After a C-section it is extremely difficult to sleep laying down. It’s difficult to do anything to be honest, but laying fully flat is agony. So, there I was a new mum sleeping next to my baby for the first time surrounded by four other mums and babies all cocooned in blue curtains. The thing about the blue curtains is that they don’t block out any noise. So, all night long you can hear the nurses, the other babies and parents shuffling around. Of course, when one baby cries in the night so do all the other babies. It’s like they play tag with each other. ‘You start crying first this time and I will for the next round. Then we can take it turns like a dawn chorus so that nobody gets any sleep.’ I imagine this is what the babies were up to. So that first night I managed about an hour. 

The best thing about Savannah ward is the breakfast. When hand over is just finishing and all the curtains are being opened, the breakfast lady comes around and she says these magical words “Toast or cereal?” I always had toast and a cup of tea. The toast was cold and the little pots of butter and jam were those plastic kinds that taste more like sugar, but it was delicious! After hardly any sleep and facing a day of uncertainty on the ward, tea and toast just made the world better for a brief moment. In fact, tea and toast become something that I relied on. When Zach was awake at 3am and not settling. Or they came at midnight or 5am to take yet more bloods from his poor feet. I knew in a few hours that I was going to have five minutes where I could eat some jammy toast and drink some very strong milky tea. I often ate it one handed whilst holding Zach. Or Emmanuel would feed it to me if I had no hands free and he had arrived early. It’s the small things that become crutches. It’s the small details that make the long days and weeks bearable. They also fed the breastfeeding mum’s lunch and dinner. I didn’t always eat it but it was a small comfort to know that I would have hot food there at 8am, 12 noon and 5pm.

The only other thing that’s better than the tea and toast in the morning is when you have had a particularly bad night or early morning and one of the nurses brings you tea and toast accompanied by a listening ear.

The first day on the ward my mum was still in London so she stayed with me all day. She was there as I fed Zach constantly. She helped me as I cried because he just wasn’t getting enough. She listened to me moan all day long. There really wasn’t much she could do but at least she was there. Emmanuel had to go and sort out a big food shop for us and take It back to our accommodation. He also had to unpack all of our suitcases and organise our room where we were staying. I am so glad I had my mums’ company that day. But at the same time, I felt so bad for just being this big mess. This definitely wasn’t the happy day with their grandchild that most grandparents dream off. It was so handy having her there though. When I needed to go to my own appointment the day after. Mum and dad sat with Zach whilst Emmanuel took me across to St Thomas’ hospital so that I could see the midwifes. They sent a picture in the family WhatsApp group of Zach in his cot. ‘First babysitting duties’ was the caption. Mum and Dad stayed for a week in total. It was perfect, they were there when we couldn’t be. They sat with Zach we had to do other things. My mum was a friendly face in the sea of nurses when I was trying to feed and change him. Sometimes you do just need your parents. Myself and Emmanuel soon felt ready to do this with just the three of us, as a family. When Mum and Dad went back home we were ready to try to handle this all ourselves. I will always be grateful that my parents got to see Zach when he was so little. Soon his other grandparents would meet him as well. It really meant so much to me for them all to come to the hospital to be with us.

HDU and Breastfeeding

This was it, the moment I was waiting for. Zach was three days old and my milk was starting to appear. A small screen was placed around a chair area next to Zach’s cot. With the help of nurse Emma, Zach was lifted out of his cot and placed on me and a giant pillow. I put him to my breast and he started to latch and suck quite easily. This is it! I thought we are doing it! Then He pulled away and started to scream. I mean really scream like there was poison coming out or something. I rocked him and soothed him and tried again. The same thing happened. He started ok and then he pulled away and screamed. The nurse came back over to see how it was going. She could clearly hear him screaming. I showed her what he was doing and she sat down beside me to help.

“Let’s calm him down and get him nice and relaxed. An angry baby won’t latch.” She informed me.

So I rocked him and patted him until he was calm again. We tried again, but he just yelled at me. He got so upset that red patches appeared across his whole body.

“Maybe he can’t get any out. Let’s express a little first and see if that helps.” Emma suggested. She disappeared off and came back with the hospital breast pump machine and the attachments. The machine was on wheels and reached around a meter tall. She opened two packets of sterile equipment and handed them to me.

She explained how the plastic tube section can’t get wet. If it does the suction would stop working, but the rest can be sterilised. She showed me the suction part of the equipment and gave me a sterilising bag that goes into the microwave with some water in it to be able to steam sterilise it. I had no idea how any of this worked! It was staring at some very strange objects. She sat with me and explained how to connect it all and how to use the machine. I didn’t get much out at first but it was a start. The start of a very long expressing relationship.

I tried Zach on my breast again and he latched for a short period but still wasn’t happy. Emma said she would arrange for a lactation consultant to come over and help me later. I was so thankful that I had all of these professionals around me to help me. I let Zach rest. We would try again later that day.

In the early evening, myself and my mum went over to see Zach and to try breastfeeding again. This was the experience I will never forget. I had the small screen offered to me again, but I wasn’t fussed and it took a while to set it up. We didn’t bother in the end. My mum sat with me, the lactation consultant appeared, Emma was there and so was another nurse. I had an army and we were ready to do this.

Zach was placed on me and our giant cushion. I unhooked my bra and placed him on me just as I had done before. His suck reflex kicked in and he started to suck, but not for long. He started to cry just as he had before. The lactation consultant stepped in to assess his suck. She put a glove on her hand and her finger in his mouth. Zach sucked on her finger reflexively.

“He has a slight tongue tie but he should be ok.” She informed me. I took her word on it and didn’t think much of it.

“Let’s try this” and she gave me lots of things to try. A sandwich hold for my breast. A ‘rugby hold’ for Zach. Expressing a bit of milk first. Many, many things, but Zach just screamed. We had to stop after a while as he was so worked up. I felt deflated. I so badly wanted him to be able to feed that I felt I was failing him already.

We tried one last time before the lactation consultant left. We got everything in position and then she very quickly grabbed me and Zach and pushed his head onto me so fast Zach had no option but to latch and suck and he did. He was finally feeding. I was so happy. What I didn’t know at the time was that forceful action that she had just performed would only have very short-lived success. Zach was feeding, for now. Every time I fed him, I now copied what she had done, as soon as his mouth was open, I quickly shoved his head on my breast. I would later learn that this just isn’t best practise.

Alone To Recover

The nurses checked on me every half an hour after my C-section surgery. I was in a private room with a view across London. Emmanuel was with our baby. I was so alone at that moment. Yet I still felt full and happy, not sad. I felt like I had accomplished something. Something with a nine-month build up.

Emmanuel came to my room and gave me my phone. He had kept hold of it for me after Bethany (the Anaesthetist) had taken our wonderful birth photos for us. I had been alone with no phone for almost thirty minutes. I think that feeling was more bizarre than the numb legs were. He bowled into the room with the biggest grin on his face. He was a father. No matter what, from this point onwards he was a Daddy. I had had nine months to get used to the idea of having a baby every time I felt him kick. Emmanuel had this moment. It was written all over his face and his navy-blue scrubs. I am a Daddy. He looked like he might burst.

“How is he?” I asked.

“He’s good. The doctors are just sorting him out now.” He beamed at me with such joy, I couldn’t help but feel the same way.

“Go. Go be with him.” I would have pushed him out of the door if I could have.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just go.” I was again left alone.

I looked through the pictures on my phone. Seeing it all captured made me so happy. I zoomed in on Zach’s face, his wide-open screaming mouth. That beautiful squashy nose. In one picture his face was next to mine and his hand was reaching for me. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Then my phone pinged and Emmanuel sent through pictures of him now. His bottom half was tightly wrapped up in a hospital blanket. He was wearing a hat with a white and grey star print on it that I had picked out as his first outfit, He didn’t need the baby-grow that matched as he was on a heated bed. His chest had three little wires attached to it with different coloured sticky pads, a red, a green and a yellow. These were to measure his heart. But I didn’t know that at the time. I barely saw them. I just saw his face. His beautiful fluffy new-born face. My son.

My parents had booked a hotel room in London near to the hospital. As soon as we gave the go-ahead for them to visit, they appeared in my room in a nanosecond. Armed with a gorgeous teddy and a card. It was so surreal to see them there. I had just briefly met my son and now my parents were about to as well. They came to me at my bedside, because of course I couldn’t move, and gave me hugs. I told them right away to go and meet their grandson. It didn’t take much convincing before they left to go and find him.

Again, I was alone. A nurse came in and took my blood pressure and observed my bleeding. Which involves lifting the sheet to peek at you and see if you are bleeding on to the giant pad sheets.  At the time I did not care a dot. Looking back, it was really humiliating. I asked when I could go and see my baby. As soon as you can get into a wheelchair was the answer. Over the next hour and a half, I sat there trying to wiggle my toes and get my legs to move enough to be able to get into a wheelchair. They offered me morphine and I accepted. Anything to make it easier to get off this bed and into that chair. By 3.30pm just over two hours after I had been stitched up, I was calling the nurse.

“I can do it. I can get in the chair.” I was so determined that I didn’t care if I actually felt ready or not. She wheeled in a chair with a humiliation pad on it. And a big sheet to wrap around me so that I wasn’t flashing my butt to everybody through the back of the chair.

I used every piece of strength I had to heave myself into that seat. I could move my legs but not properly. I was using my arms to get off the bed and closer to the wheel chair, closer to him. I stood one foot on the ground and lifted, exposing my naked back to the nurses. I did not care. I swung around and placed my butt down into the seat.  Leaving my remaining leg to drag behind me, with some effort I managed to pull it across and into the footrest. The nurses wrapped the sheet around the chair. I was so happy with myself that I ignored the pain in my abdominal region. I pushed it away like a leaf down a sticky stream of mud. It was not going to stop me seeing my son.

My dad came to wheel me over to the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). I gleefully joked with him about Mario Kart driving as we whizzed past the rooms and receptions of each ward. We passed the lifts that separated the mothers from their babies. A wall between us. Soon, so soon, I was outside the room where he was. Emmanuel came out to meet me and to wheel me in. My wound was throbbing now. The morphine hardly touching the edges of the pain, but it was certainly making me high. I didn’t realise at the time but the morphine and the dihydrocodeine were making me feel giddy. I was a little bit ‘away with the fairies.’

I was ready. A nurse held the door open for us and I was pushed inside a softly lit room filled with four baby beds. I was about to meet my son, properly. To hold him in my arms for the first time. To look into his face, to hold his hand and whisper his name.

The Birth

As we drew closer to my induction date on the 16th February it was becoming apparent that Zach would not be turning on his own. Despite my attempts to get him to flip around, he remained in a head upwards position. I had a phone consultation with the doctor at St Thomas’ Hospital where I would be for the birth. She talked through the risks of attempting a breech birth. It did not look good. So reluctantly I agreed that if a 3rd ECV attempt didn’t work that I would have a planned C-section. The ECV and was booked for Monday the 17th of February. I was 39 weeks pregnant.

We arrived in hospital on Monday morning, I was so hopeful that he would turn but deep down I think I knew that he wouldn’t. I knew either way that very soon my son would be born. Either we would start an induction today if he turned. Or I would be going to theatre for a C-section if he didn’t.

We tried the last two ECV’s to turn our baby boy around but he wouldn’t budge. As it turned out Little Zach was stuck in position because I have a heart shaped Uterus instead of the regular oval shape. Or at least That is possibly why, He could just have been really comfortable there.

“You tried baby,” Emmanuel said to me as he held my hand. I was sat perched on the edge of the bed still waiting for the salbutamol to go away so that I could stop feeling jittery. We were left alone whilst the midwife arranged a room for us. We would be staying in until the C-section was booked.

We were checked in and given a private room. Then we waited. And waited and waited. It turns out that we would not be having our baby that day. The hospital informed us that they just couldn’t fit us in. So, we went for dinner and came back to the hospital later. The night was an odd one. We both knew what was coming but we were in limbo. Emmanuel had to sleep in the reclining chair next to my hospital bed for the night. We watched Love island and fell asleep early.

The next day I was woken up by the nurses at 7 am and given omeprazole to prevent acid reflux during the C-section. My blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels were taken and we were again left alone to wait. At 8 am the nurses changed shifts and we were visited once more. This time we were told we would be going to theatre today at some point. Today would be my baby’s birthday. I liked the date that it had fallen on which is a weird thing to focus on. But somehow the 19th Feb just wouldn’t have suited him and likewise the 17th. The 18th was a good day for Zach to be born. I liked it. So today was the day, then we waited. And waited and waited. We messaged family and friends and let them know what was going on but truthfully, we were just kind of floating around with no idea.

At around lunchtime, I was given some compression socks to put on and antibacterial wipes to ‘wash; with’. Along with a gown. I got washed up, dressed down and sat on the bed so that Emmanuel could help me with my compression socks. Trust me when I say there is no easy way to put on a pair of compression socks. It took about half an hour to get on just one sock. My feet were so swollen and the socks, of course, were so tight that the task became a hilarious event of pushing and pulling. It didn’t help matters that I hadn’t shaved my legs for months. Added friction.

Finally, with the socks on, we were called to theatre. It was literately a knock on the door and let’s go. We were taken to another room in another ward. This would be the room that I would come to afterwards for recovery. We lugged all of our bags and bits and pieces across. I set up my bottle of water and tablet ready on the table for afterwards. Then we sat taking in the view overlooking the London eye. We took some last photos of the two of us dressed in our gown and Emmanuel in his ‘scrubs’. The knock on the door came and off we went. We walked down the corridor to the theatre. I was holding my gown closed so I didn’t flash anybody my bum.

The theatre was not what I expected. We walked in through two sets of doors to a green coloured room and that was it. There it was right off the main corridor. You could almost stumble into it.

I was sat on a bed and given a chair to rest my feet on. My blood pressure etc. were all checked before we started and then the procedure was explained to me. I had a cannula inserted into my hand for drugs to be administered. Then a fluid drip was set up. I was given a pillow to lean over and hug onto. The anaesthetist then cleaned and numbed the skin on my back. She pushed between two of my vertebrae with her fingers for a while before finding the correct spot. She then inserted the needle and administered the spinal block. I could feel it, I won’t lie. But it’s not painful it’s more like pressure. Almost straight away my legs went tingly and I felt sick. I was helped to lay down before I lost anymore feeling. Emmanuel was given a chair so that he could sit by my head the whole time. The anaesthetist, Bethany, stood the other side of me. She was amazing. From start to finish I couldn’t have asked for somebody more kind or professional to take care of me. My gown was lifted to be used as a screen and a blanket placed over my lower half – then the part I had been truly dreading and I mean that. The catheter. My legs were moved by the nurses and the catheter inserted. I had no idea about any of it of course but I knew what they were doing as they were talking and telling me as they went. And honestly, that was probably the worst part. It still makes my tummy feel funny just thinking about it.

The anaesthetist used a cold spray to check I was numb all over before anything began. Once she was happy that I couldn’t feel anything anywhere we were ready. I was giving her detailed feedback. “well I know you are there, but it doesn’t feel cold.” I am sure she was used this. I was concentrating so hard in case I could feel anything, but I couldn’t at all. They do explain to you that they take away the pain but not the sensations. So, you will feel the movement. They said it would be like rummaging in a handbag! Nice analogy! There I was, Emmanuel holding my hand, everything numb and ready to go, but the surgeon was nowhere to be found. Bethany stepped up and called to someone to sort this out. She was efficient and assertive. It was just what was needed at the time. Then he entered, in a room full of women a man walked in. He took a moment to introduce himself to me before a proper screen was put up and I could no longer see anything except the blue fabric, Emmanuel and Bethany. The surgeon was concerned by the size of the bed and wanted the side extender removed as he couldn’t reach across. It was what felt like a power play but must have been a genuine concern. The side of the bed was quickly removed. It was time.

My blood pressure started to drop at this point and I began feeling sick so Bethany gave me some drugs to counteract this. I felt better almost right away. I was a bit shaky but this was just the adrenaline in my body, like when you go to the dentist for a filling and afterwards your legs are wobbly. Then it started. Within minutes we heard them saying, we can see the baby’s feet and bum. They all laughed as he pooed on his way out. Then we heard the most beautiful sound I have ever heard in my life. My baby boy cried as he was lifted out of me. Bethany took my phone and snapped loads of pictures for us. Thanks to her I have a picture sequence of the most amazing moment; the birth of my son. His bum being lifted out. His face appearing. His cord being cut. His screaming face and long body stretched out as they lay him across my legs. He was taken aside for a few moments to be checked and wrapped in a blanket before being brought over to me. Because of the poo, he had to go straight to NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) but I had a few brief moments of him placed next to my face. He reached out and grabbed at my face as if he knew who I was and was asking to stay with me. But soon, too soon, he was gone. Emmanuel kissed and hugged me and told me well done before he left with our baby. I was so adamant that he stayed with our son that I am sure I was practically shouting it.  I was alone in a room full of strangers. But the most wonderful strangers. The nurses chatted to me and kept me calm as they started to stitch me back up. I thought I would feel sad because my baby and my partner had both just left, but I felt pretty good. As if I had just done a workout.

As they stitched me back up, the student nurse and Bethany kept up the conversation. “is this your first baby?” “Did you know you were having a boy?” Questions that I would soon get very used to hearing and answering. Safe questions. Normal.

I asked how the stitching up was going. Bethany told me they were nearly done. I asked again “no I mean what layer are they on?” She paused before answering and telling me there were three to go. Fat and two skin. I told her I had watched a YouTube video on how it was done. She laughed and nodded.

The surgeon leaned over the screen and informed me that he had knotted the stitches on the outside and they will likely need cutting off later. The midwives would do this. This is not a normal procedure; stitches are normally all tucked in and would dissolve apparently. I still have no idea why he did this. Perhaps he was trying to start a trend. He said goodbye and disappeared off. The nurses cleaned me up and gave me a painkiller in the form of a suppository. I had no idea and wished they hadn’t have told me. I was leaned onto my side so they could clean the blood off me fully and then move me onto a travelling bed. I joked about being heavy. The five nurses chuckled politely as I am sure they had heard that joke a million times whilst lifting a 5’9 – just given birth so carrying some extra weight – woman across to another bed!

That was it. I thanked everybody as I was wheeled out of the theatre and down the corridor into my room. It was over. I had ‘given birth’ to our son. He was beautiful. That feeling is something I cannot explain. Hearing him cry and seeing his face for the first time. Something inside my heart moved for him.

20 Week Scan

We sat in the waiting room for over forty minutes awaiting our 20 week scan appointment, with all the other mums and dads at various points into pregnancy. The room was packed full of hot bodies with the heating cranked up to full blast like it seems to be in every hospital. I was melting! Finally my name was called and we were shown into a small dark room. My partner, Emmanuel, sat in the guest chair next to the bed and a screen was pulled around us. One woman sat by the computer ready to take down the measurements that would be read out by the sonographer.  They both introduced themselves and we set to work. You know the drill: the cold jelly, the uncomfortable bed and the pressing down until they find the right spot. Then we could see him, a leg, and a rib. So clear in grey and black on the screen in front of us. I was twisting my head to see it all but I didn’t care about the pain in my neck, I just wanted to see my little baby, who I had felt fluttering away in there for the last few weeks.

“Oh we would like to know the sex as well please” I said to the sonographer.

“Let’s see if we have a healthy baby first. We will look at that late”, was her sharp reply.

I was shocked at her bluntness but didn’t think much of it. Of course this is the anomaly scan. They are literately looking for anything that may indicate an unhealthy baby. Down’s syndrome is the one we probably all know about. Along with the other genetic conditions that can be possible to find early. But what we don’t often realise is that they are checking everything! And down to the measurement of a thigh bone can be an indication of an illness, disease or under development. For example, they check the face not to see how adorable they look but to see if a cleft pallet is present.

So the measurements began: the thigh bone, abdominal circumference, the skull and various others. All looked normal. Then we came to the heart and the sonographer couldn’t get a clear view of our little one’s chambers. I was asked to jump up and down, wiggle my hips and generally make a fool of myself to try and get the baby to move. All of which are massively difficult whilst squeezing you bladder closed as it is of course full. We try again. Still nothing.

“Please empty your bladder” was the short sharp instruction I was given. I trundled off to the toilets and did as she asked. I returned to the room and resumed my position on the thing pretending to be a bed. She started pressing the tool across my belly once more. The baby had not moved. This was a trend we had seen at our first scan and would continue to see right up until the end. Our little person in there – always hid from the scans and later the heart monitors. He did not like any of the intrusion, much to the annoyance of the medical professionals. The sonographer was getting irritated. She could clearly see a heart, because I could. We could all hear it beating away. That amazing moment when you hear their heart beat. But ours was dampened by the huffs and puffs from this woman. She presses harder, moves the end of the instrument more aggressively. She still cannot see what she is looking for. She calls in her colleague. I turn to look at Emmanuel who was holding my hand. He makes a face that I know to mean. ‘I know what you are thinking. I am thinking it too.’

The colleague comes in and takes over for a few minutes. They start chatting over us. Not saying anything to us at all at first. Then the second women speaks.

“Yes I agree with you.” She turns to us and finally acknowledges that we are even there and I am attached to the stomach that she is scanning. “We think we can see a problem with the heart. We have to confirm it with each other; which we have. We will send you to fetal medicine.” She finished and left the room. The original sonographer continues her scan and actually starts to explain what the heck is going on. My heart was racing by this point. What a way to drop that on new first time parents, with no explanation. We were stunned. The woman showed us the screen and pointed to the heart. “This side looks smaller than the other and there is possibly a hole, but we can’t see clearly because the baby is in a bad position.” She bluntly stated then began to move the wand away.

“Wait, have you seen the gender?” I asked.

She says nothing and places the wand back on my belly. “Here’s the spine and the bum and that there is the genitals. He’s a boy.” Just as plainly as if she was telling me the day of the week.

I was reeling with information. I wiped down my stomach, said my thanks to the women and left the room. We were in stunned silence at first. Taking our seats again to wait to have my notes folder given back to me. I felt an excitement and shock that I knew I was carrying a son. I had been thinking I was having a girl from the start so this blew my mind. So much happiness! I was having a boy and now we knew! But this sat within a whirlwind of everything else we had just been told. My mind cleared and the information began to settle. That our baby, who was so tiny in there – had a heart problem. Or a possible one. It felt like nothing and everything all at once. Like being sick and hungry at the same time. I couldn’t think about it enough, it was as though the thought had legs and was running away from me.

For some reason the rude manor & tone of the woman who scanned me, sat in front of anything else. I was SO annoyed with her! How dare she be so rude? I spoke with Emmanuel and we discussed that maybe she couldn’t see what she thought she could because our baby boy was sat in the wrong position. Maybe she was rushed and stressed and this was just a blip of information. But something in my own heart told me otherwise. This was the start of a long journey of happiness and anger mixed together at every turn. The not knowing is the hardest thing at all. Nothing is confirmed.