on: Jesse's Birth Story

Small Disclaimer: If you struggle with birth trauma, you may want to skip this one.

Water baths. Doulas. Midwives. Bouncy balls. Music. Massages.

All what I imagined at the birth of my last little bumpkin baby, Jesse. I had already birthed two boys. Both births were traumatic for different reasons.  Jesse’s first days in my womb were traumatic, as well. I constantly feared he would die in his warm cocoon. Convinced myself he wouldn’t make it full term.  Many films and coffees and conversations were spent weeping in fear for his little life, only weeks old.

I felt it was time for a natural, beautiful, peaceful, brag-worthy birth. This third baby would be that birth experience. Jesse would be my last. And he would the best. He was worth it. I was worth it. We deserved this.

Only to be told that a natural birth would be a danger to both myself and to little Jesse. Doctors in the UK don’t hand out c-sections like candy. They cost more money and are typically discouraged unless necessary. We took their advice and went forward with a planned c-section.

If you aren’t a mother, you may not understand the age-old battle of natural birth verses cesarean section. It exists. There is this underlying current that if you cannot push a baby out on your own, you are somehow not as strong as a mother that does. As though having a massive abdominal surgery is a small feat. Whilst I knew that it wasn’t true, I constantly fought thoughts that whispered to me of weakness. Inability. Brokenness.

The day before I was due for surgery, Jesse wasn’t moving as much inside of me. I was placed in hospital for observation overnight. Moved to the top of the list for a morning delivery. Our doctor was brilliant. A friend of ours. A trusted obstetrician. The consultant every mother would want to deliver their baby.  And he delivered Jesse. With no complications other than a bit too much blood loss.

We were moved out of the theatre (British operating room) to hold our healthy boy in his stripey green suit and hat.

And then. The nurse heard him grunting. Not feeding. Oxygen levels dropping. Within moments, Jesse was whisked away. We hardly knew what was happening. I couldn’t stop crying. They brought me into recovery ward. A ward full of mothers with their babies. Full of crying. Feeding. Stroking. Dressing. Bathing. And I was empty handed. Empty-minded. In pain.

I can’t remember the exact moment seeing him in his plastic cage, his incubator. With tubes and tape and beeping and needles and drips. I probably sobbed. Because that was all I did when I saw him the first few days. Doctors tried to explain that they weren’t sure why his lungs weren’t working. That they were doing all they could to help him heal and keep him safe. I would look at him, not touching him, and sing to him. Reminding him he was my little sunshine. And then I would be taken in a wheelchair back to the ward, with all the babies. Healthy babies. Eventually, they moved me to a private room. I suppose I was keeping the babies and mothers awake with my incessant crying.

As lovely and capable as they doctors were, they were unable to effectively care for my sunshine. They prepared for him to be moved to a hospital an hour away. Squeezed into another incubator, with restraints, and morphine – ready for the ambulance ride. I discharged myself,  and Dave and I followed the ambulance with a strange, eery calm. Even considered stopping for Starbucks.

We arrived at the hospital - so far from home, so far from our other two littles – and were told we needed to wait to see little Jesse as they were transferring him into his new incubator. Eventually, we sanitised our hands. And made our way through the ten other babies lined up next to Jesse. All seriously at risk. To arrive at our delightful boy, who hardly moved due to the copious amounts of morphine pumping through his system. More doctors. More facts. More opinions.

I practically begged to be able to touch him. To feel his soft skin in between the wires. They opened up his little plastic home and I sang to him. Wanting to be strong. But knowing I couldn’t be. We said goodbye. Went to the apartments next door. And tried to sleep. I woke every 2 hours to phone the NICU nurses to make sure he was okay. When I showed up in the morning, I was given the best news. A highlight of my life. I could hold him.

I could hold him. The nurses managed to shimmy him out of his incubator, with all the cords, onto my chest. His chest touching mine. Smell of his hair wafting into my nose. Beat of his heart. Best moment of my life.

16 days. Of living in an apartment near my baby in the hospital. 16 days of pumping breast milk ready for when he could drink it. 16 days of rocking in the NICU. 16 days of updates from doctor rounds. 16 days of cafeteria food. 16 days of watching TV. 16 days of walking the hospital halls. 16 days of waiting to bring my baby home.

Finally, to be told, he was healthy. Our Jesse came home. Our brave warrior. Our gift.

Words cannot convey the thanks I have for the NHS. For the doctors and nurses that brought him back to health.

And for every mother that has had a baby in the NICU (with babies that are much younger and sicker than Jesse) – I applaud you. Commend you. Want to hug you. You have been through trauma. I have been through trauma. And you are seen.

And for every mother that has lost a baby – I will sit with you and cry. Because that’s all I know how to do. All my love to you – you very brave women.

And to you, my Jesse. You have all my love. All of it. I will never take holding you for granted.