Sasha’s Story — Part One: Birth
When I found out that I was pregnant in January 2009, it came as a bit of a surprise. Martin and I had been married for a few years by then but had not planned to start a family for a while. Still, pregnant I was and we soon began looking forward to our imminent new arrival. I was well and so it seemed was the baby; all scans were fine and things progressed swimmingly. Late into my pregnancy my mum went on a trip to Singapore which was planned long before we knew I was pregnant. She would be returning only a few days after my due date and people were quick to comment that ‘first babies are always late’, so we assumed that she would be back before the baby was born.
In the first of a long list of surprises, however, I went into labour a day before I was due. I was woken in the morning of Tuesday 15th September by mild contractions which gradually became closer together (according to Martin, who was frantically recording them on an app on his phone). By this time I had decided to try for a home birth so there was no thought of going into hospital. Instead, in my mum’s absence, I rang my dad, who, sounding slightly panicked, asked ‘Have you had a show?’ (To date the weirdest conversation I have had with my dad). On discovering that I had, in fact, my dad announced that ‘no babies were being born without him being there’. I can only assume that he felt that the mantle of responsibility fell to him as my mum was not there to shoulder it. We tried to convince him that his presence was really, really not necessary but to no avail. He would go and drop something to my aunt’s house and be round later in the afternoon.
In the meantime things on the labour front were clearly marching on so Martin called the midwives who arrived shortly afterwards, as did my dad, who made himself useful in the best way he knew how — providing endless cups of tea. My labour was as straightforward as the most painful experience ever to be endured could be, although at one point I decided that I had had enough and wanted to go to hospital for an epidural. I tried the birthing pool we had set up and at one point was even pushing on the toilet (an excellent position, according to the midwife, and dignity be damned). Finally, at 10.20pm on the Tuesday, Sasha was delivered on our bed (with two midwives, Martin, and, of course, my dad in attendance).
It was at this point that things stopped being straightforward. Sasha was born not breathing. This was clearly of no immediate concern (it is not unusual for babies not to breathe immediately when they are born) and the midwives let Martin cut the cord. However, it wasn’t long before panic started to descend. Martin and I, having never had a baby before, were probably unaware for longer than the other people in the room that there was a major problem. An ambulance was called and arrived quickly. The paramedics got Sasha breathing and then took him in the ambulance with Martin — I was still soaking wet from being in the birthing pool, but followed in a second ambulance. I can remember shaking uncontrollably at this point through a combination of fear, shock and plain exhaustion. When we arrived at A and E at our local hospital, Sasha was seen by the doctor. By now he was breathing on his own and we were told that they would keep him in the Special Care Baby Unit (SCBU) over night to keep an eye on him. I was given a room on the maternity ward and my dad and Martin went home.
I dozed for a couple of hours and woke up about 5 in the morning. I told the nurse that I wanted to see my baby and was taken to SCBU, where I found Sasha sleeping. I was told not to pick him up — apparently he had just fallen asleep, having screamed all night despite being given pain killers and even a sedative. We know now that this behaviour is completely typical of a baby with brain injury, but at the time we had no idea. So I left him sleeping and when he woke up I tried to feed him. He wasn’t interested, but the nurses reassured me that that this was quite normal for a baby who has had a traumatic birth. They put in a nasogastric (NG) tube — through his nose and into his stomach — and through this fed him breast milk from the donor bank. Wednesday evening came and there was no talk of us being sent home, so Martin and I were given a room on SCBU to allow us to stay there with Sasha. At this point we remained unaware that there was any major problem, so we were tired and shaken but confident that we would be taking a healthy baby home the next day.
Later that night, I went to see Sasha on the ward. I knew immediately I saw him that something was terribly wrong. His heart rate, monitored constantly at this point, was abnormally high and he was making strange high pitched noises. I went to the nurses’ station, where they initially told me that he was probably just upset at being on his own in a crib. Having seen him, however, the nurse immediately paged the on-call paediatrician. He told us that Sasha was having a seizure, that he was unsure of the cause but would administer an anti-convulsant. There was nothing we could do but watch and wait and there is no way to describe how awful that helplessness was. Early on the Thursday morning we called my dad to tell him that Sasha was very poorly indeed and that we wanted him with us. He didn’t need asking twice, and we will never forget the incredible support that he provided.
During ward round that morning, we saw the consultant and, scared and confused, asked what was happening. He explained that there are a number conditions which can result in seizures in a newborn but that he did not know which of these we were facing. We asked him if Sasha was going to be okay and he replied that he was very sorry but he just didn’t know. Although it would be easy to assume that we were falling apart by this point, in actual fact it all felt quite surreal, like we were in a nightmare, or watching this awful situation happening to somebody else. As Martin has said before, it was like something inside had shut off all other feelings.
By the Friday Sasha was still having regular seizures despite being on a cocktail of anti-convulsant medication. Martin and my dad met with the consultant, as I did not feel that I could cope with this. I felt as though I was distancing myself from the situation, deliberately spending as little time as possible on the ward with Sasha as every time I looked at him I felt like my heart might break. I am ashamed to write that, as I know that I should have put his needs first and been there, but I had not had the chance to bond with him as he had been whisked away from me as soon as he was born. Following this meeting, it was agreed that Sasha was in need of more care than could be provided in the Special Care Unit and the decision was made to transfer him to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at St Thomas’ Hospital in London.
Sasha’s Story — Part Two: Neonatal to follow.
If you enjoyed what you read please ❤ it below!
