He Beat The Odds

The birth of my oldest son was traumatic to say the least, and it was touch and go for the first few days, but he fought for his place in this world, for which I will be forever grateful.

Born three weeks premature because I’d had a fall three weeks prior and damaged my placenta, meaning my son was not receiving the nutrients he needed to grow. The decision was made to bring him out into the world early. He was the equivalent of a six week premature baby.

Oh boy, I was not ready to be a mum. No, I thought I still had three more weeks to come to terms with this new role and the new life I was about to enter.

The universe had other plans and they bundled me into hospital to induce me early.

At first my labour started mildly and built momentum for the first ten hours, but they stopped the labour to ensure I got a good night’s sleep; against my wishes I might add.

The next morning they induced me again and that’s when the shit hit the fan. Within sixty seconds my baby’s heartbeat dropped from 160 beats a minute to less than 60 beats a minute. He was severely distressed.

They had to get him out fast.

They began prepping me for surgery, racing me down the hallway to theatre with frantic haste.

So fast that I didn’t even have time to panic as a nurse was ripping earrings from my ears, removing my necklace, running alongside my gurney as I’m raced from my room.

With the severity of my baby’s distress, they couldn’t put me under a general anaesthetic until the absolute last minute, not wanting to take a chance of sedating the baby.

It was only in conjunction with the first incision that they allowed me to drift off to sleep. Minutes later my son was frantically pulled into this world and whipped through to intensive care.

He was small, weighing in at 2,525 grams or 2.5 kgs. Not much more than a bag of sugar.

He was extremely unwell and they were worried.

My son was born at 9:30 am on a Friday, exactly a week before Christmas, and this photo was taken at 4 pm on Monday afternoon, just before I held him and fed him for the very first time. He was four days old.

He’d been so sick that he couldn’t be held or fed for those first few days and even after his first feed, he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

It tore my heart to shreds to see him like this in intensive care and not be able to cuddle him or hold him close. As a new mother, that was horribly tough.

The doctors advised that I’d be going home for Christmas without him, anticipating he’d be in intensive care for at least two weeks. I told them, in no uncertain terms, that I’d not be leaving without him, so if he stays, I stay!

My baby boy made sure I didn’t leave that hospital without him. He fought the hard fight and won.

He was such a little piggy from the very first moment I put him to my breast. In fact, he was soon feeding every two hours, 24 hours a day. I thought I was overfeeding him but they kept telling me it was because he was a premature baby and to let him feed.

48 hours after his first feed, I was able to take him from intensive care and back to my room. He was six days old and the doctors were amazed.

I was then given one night to learn to be his mother and early afternoon on Christmas Eve, I was able to take my baby boy home.

My little miracle boy, surviving all the odds, resilient and full of fighting spirit.

Oh boy, that fighting spirit. While I’m thankful as it ensured he survived, I went on to spend many years fighting that spirited boy through his childhood, but when push comes to shove, I wouldn’t change it for the world!