I had a baby

Well there's a headline I never thought I'd write. Nearly 10 years as a journalist and even now some stories still surprise me.

I had a baby, a real one. A girl! My beautiful Eva Penny Rose was born on July 9, 2020. But perhaps due to her genetics, the little lady made a rather dramatic entrance.

She had been measuring small throughout my pregnancy, apparently. Then at my 35 week growth scan an over-confident doctor found a measurement that indicated she may have fetal anaemia. After listing a bunch of terrifying reasons why my unborn baby could have given this illusive "MCA reading" (with Down Syndrome, cystic fibrosis, brain haemorrhage on the list), this over-confident doctor decided my baby had to be delivered by C-section that day.

Minutes before my C-section having just been told my baby may be very unwell

Eva was out less than 3 hours later, weighing just 4lb 2oz - a few ounces bigger than they had predicted and not a bad size for 35 weeks. Thankfully she did NOT have fetal anaemia, but she did have severe respiratory distress syndrome (something very common in premature babies) and was very poorly.

She was rushed to intensive care where less than 48 hours later her lung collapsed. I know now that 50% of babies die instantly after a "pneumothorax" (aka collapsed lung), and of the 50% who survive, they usually are a much bigger birth weight than Eva was.

Eva was so poorly I was unable to hold her 

Thankfully, the incredible Dr Vasu and his team of superheros saved Eva's life and she was able to come home 3 weeks later. But I can't help but think East Kent Hospital's maternity services - or certainly one overly-confident doctor - nearly killed her. They failed to safeguard her little lungs by giving me a full steroid course, they didn't wait to see if they could establish a "trend" in the MCA readings (which they should have done and wouldn't have found) and they haven't ever given me an explanation as to why they ripped my baby from my tummy dangerously early. 

I will never forget the trauma of Eva's stay in NICU. I'm not slating the incredible nurses who work there, they are truly heroes. But some of the experiences in hospital will haunt me forever:

- The phonecall to the ward I was staying on at 5am to say we "had to come quick" and running across the hospital to the neonatal unit about 30 hours after a c-section. 

- The look on the nice nurse's face when she tried to kindly tell me to prepare myself by gently asking "you do realise your daughter is VERY poorly, don't you"

After her collapsed lung, Eva was medially paralysed and sedated - nurses were told to leave her alone

- Being told to "sit down" by the lovely doctor, who somehow found a kind way of telling us he had basically tried everything and Eva wasn't responding to any of his many treatments

- Watching Eva's stats just drop at light-speed every time anyone touched her, making me too scared to touch her

- Hiding in the breastfeeding room to get out of the way because the frantic doctors and nurses desperately trying to save her didn't need to waste time reassuring me while her stats plummeted, they needed to focus on her. 

- Making that difficult decision to leave her side so that I wasn't a distraction while they rescued her from the 

My eyes were swollen from crying 

- Staring at the wall and making a deal with the universe that if her life was over - I'd be hot-footing it off this mortal coil at the earliest opportunity too

- The doctor's incredibly kind but pained face when he told us he had to sedate and paralyse her to give her a chance and that we would "leave her for 24 hours to see what happens" (which was somewhat of a last-resort)

- PRAYING harder than I have ever prayed. Begging any spirit, god, universe energy or other source to please not take my daughter from me. PLEASE

- The miraculous turnaround as her stats eventually started to stabilise

- The lovely consultant high-fiving me when it seemed she was coming back from the brink, when no one thought she would

- Hiding in the breastfeeding room (again) when she was extubated, holding my breath the whole time as we waited to find out if she could breathe on her own

- Clutching my late mum's engagement ring and singing "you are my sunshine" repeatedly to myself and rocking back and forth while I waited

- The kind Irish nurse going to find out if they were done, even though I had been somewhat rude to her earlier (I'm still sorry)

- The echoing sounds of the doctors voices as everyone tried to get their head around her somewhat-miraculous turnaround

-The feeling of elation when I was first able to hold her - almost a week after she was born

The first time I held my beautiful, tiny baby

- How that same feeling was peppered with abject terror at the fragility of my daughter who doctors had dubbed "the unpredictable baby"

- Sobbing as I guiltily told one nurse we had to formula feed Eva because I couldn't pump any breastmilk (turns out stress isn't great for milk production)

- How excited we were to downgrade Eva to "special" care rather than intensive - but how that excitement quickly turned into frustration

- The two-week groundhog day of trying to get Eva to feed from a bottle so she could have her final wire - the feeding tube - taken off

Eva spent two weeks in special care learning how to feed

- Being discharged from hospital two weeks before my baby and being made to leave without her. Then subsequently sitting in my car outside my house sobbing for an hour because I couldn't bring myself to go in without her

- Being told by the nurses "you don't have to be here all the time, go home" - and being made to feel I had to leave my baby's side

- Spending the first three weeks of our newborn life together sat in one chair, in a room full of people, silently staring at my baby through terrified anxious tears

For 3 weeks I was only able to spend time with my baby in a chair on a busy ward

- Waiting outside - or in my car - while my husband spent time with our baby - not allowed in at the same time (thanks covid) so not being allowed to be with her

- Arguing with nurses over the restrictions in place thanks to coronavirus - which meant my husband and I couldn't even be on the ward at the same time or use any of the services other families would have considered lifelines - like the family room. 

- Feeling like every second she wasn't at home with us was going to permanently damage our attachment 

....

There are so many more things I could write about - the details of the trauma, the feelings of inadequacy, the fear, the terror, the relief, the gratitude, the bitterness - you name it, I felt it. On one hand feeling an unbelievable amount of relief that Eva was ok. But on the other hand, bitterly angry that she had been given this seemingly-unnecessarily-difficult start. Why was my baby ripped from my tummy? What did I do wrong? Why wasn't I allowed the chance to have my baby naturally? Why were we denied a normal labour? Why couldn't I hold my baby for a week? Why did she have to be put through so much trauma? Why was she made to fight for her life before she'd even finished growing? Why was this happening to us?

I've since said that "the trauma of NICU is fading" but that's not true. It is still with me every single day and is almost-definitely the catalyst for the dark post-natal depression cloud I find myself wading through. 

Thankfully my beautiful daughter is no longer just surviving, she is positively thriving. She weighs a healthy 10lb at 3 months old (9 weeks corrected) and as far as we know has no concerning long-term health conditions. These are the saving graces of her ordeal and I'm beyond thankful to be able to say that.

Three months in, Eva is thriving

But that doesn't mean everything is fine. I'm still wracked with anxiety, detachment issues, probably some form of PTSD and a whole host of other difficult issues. I'm still terrified our rough start has done permanent damage to our bond and attachment. I'm still petrified my beautiful girl will have further health issues that we haven't picked up on yet. I'm still wracked with guilt that I failed my baby before we even met.

My mum died a year ago. She suffered a short but brutal battle with lung cancer. My family and I cared closely for her and witnessed some unspeakably traumatic things when she was poorly. I was already carrying a full-loaded baggage of respiratory-related PTSD on top of the world-ending grief at losing my favourite person on the planet. I was already fragile, to say the least.

My miracle baby was supposed to be the light in the darkness. Her name Eva literally means "to give life". Her rough start has traumatised - and retraumatised me to a near-breakdown level. I often find myself feeling angry and bitter at starting our journey like this - full of anxiety. And then I feel a bucketload of guilt for not focusing on my gratitude that she is ok. She's alive and well - which is so much more than some families are able to say and I should count my lucky stars every day for that- -and trust me I do. 

But I still have to have the same conversation in my subconscious every second of every day. The same anxiety-guilt-trauma-battle that makes me either detach from my feelings entirely or feel them so greatly I fear I might be drowned in them.

I've always been a person with an anxious disposition. I battled panic attacks in the first year of my first proper journalism job.  But I felt proud to have overcome them with a burst of medication, yoga and meditation. I literally thought I had it under control. You know when you google "what to do when you're anxious" and a list of handy suggestions like journalling and exercise come up? Yeah I do every single one of those, daily. Now I'm left with the fear of what happens when they don't work anymore and I find myself unable to focus on anything because I'm so detached from the bucketload of trauma bubbling at the tip of my subconscious.

I don't get much sleep with a 3 month old anyway, but even if I did I wouldn't want it because of the fucking nightmares.

I consider myself a resilient person. Before my mum died I couldn't imagine anything worse than losing her. And then my ultimate fear became a reality and I somehow had to survive that. Thankfully I come from a long line of women who list "sheer grit and determination" as their superpowers. Not only that but my sister is a real-life superhero/life-coach/role-model/best-friend who is quite literally the strength of all the women who came before her.

Despite my crippling anxiety, emotional detachment and battle with Postnatal Depression, I still consider myself resilient. No, fuck that, I AM resilient. And that is why I have started this blog - to remind myself - and you, dear reader, that we are all resilient. And no matter what adversity you are facing, whatever huge battles you have in your head or your circumstances - you are resilient too. Because while anxiety, emotional issues, PND and other mental health issues are not a choice - resilience is. 

If the only things we can control in life are how we respond to stuff - then I'm going to take charge of my response. Brutal honesty, ownership, self-awareness, vulnerability, kindness and forgiveness - all those things are a choice and those things build resilience. 

Eva fought so fucking hard for her place in this world - she showed a powerhouse resilience my Nan would be in awe of, before she'd even opened her eyes. 

So I'm going to learn from my tiny little teacher - and I choose resilience too. 

(Ignore the publishing date on this, I wrote this in October but have only just got round to publishing)