Yummy Mummy Week is a fundraising campaign run by CLIC Sargent, the children's cancer charity. It takes place from the 10th - 18th March. The lovely Nickie at I am Typecast is hosting a series of writing prompts, and I am very pleased to be joining in. Last year I attended my first ever blogging conference, Cybermummy, and Nickie read this post , intensely personal, it was the absolute highlight of the day, and fair to say, not a dry eye in the house. I have chosen the prompt imagine your child can't be home with you. This is based on Joseph's time in NICU
Hastily grabbing a pot of freshly expressed milk, I start my short trip down the stairs to the neo natal unit. I am stopped by one of the grandmothers, here supporting her newly delivered daughter.
"Good morning, how's little Joseph getting on today?", she asked kindly. "Well thanks, not much change, I am going home today". Her face changed, she looked at me, shocked. "What? You can't go home, you have to stay here, with your baby, or take him home with you. You can't possibly leave him here all on his own." Tears welling in my eyes, I hastily explained that there are no facilities for parents to stay and this is what is expected. "Well that is just cruel, you should not be leaving your baby here, with strangers".
I carry on and walk into the unit, gazing at my baby lying in his little box, oblivious to my presence. I drop my milk in the fridge, and proceed back to my room, packing away the pyjamas, clothes, and cards that I have amassed in my week long stay. My husband arrives and takes me home.
The next day, I get up early, express again, put the milk in my cool bag, and pop into town on the way to the hospital. I need a changing bag. I go to our local bag shop and look at the bags. The owner, not known for his stunning interpersonal skills, approaches.
"Oh you don't want one of them, that's a changing bag, you know, for a baby". I smile "yes I need a changing bag now, I've had a baby". He looks at me wide eyed, incredulous. "What? You? When?", through gritted teeth I reply "last Friday, he's just over a week old". I divert my attention to the bags, checking every detail, looking at the stitching, the little dogs on the front, the price, thinking to myself "just go away, go away go away", he says it, I know it's coming "so why isn't he here then, where is he?" I explain. He tells me I am a bad mother. I should be with him. Every minute. I buy a bag (I really shouldn't have done) and I leave.
I go to the unit, I sit by my son's incubator and I try, very hard, to swallow the tears that are welling in my eyes. I quietly open the porthole door and stroke his foot. I talk to him, I sing to him, and then I leave. Without my baby. Alone.
Every day I make the journey to the hospital. Usually alone, splitting the visits with my husband so that Joseph has me there in the morning, and Corey there at night. Every day I smile, I put on a brave face. "How's Joseph today?" people ask me, "oh just fine", I say. Yes I know what people are thinking. "If he's fine why is he in hospital?". It is so hard to explain, the need to grow, to be protected, for medication, for tube feeding. It sounds so dramatic, so acute, but it isn't. It's normal. Our new normal.
For 76 days, my baby is not with me. I go home alone. My husband and I tiptoe around each other. We are tired, we are drained, we are parents, yet we are not parents. We go out for meals, we go out for Sunday lunch, trying to have some normality and some company. We are driving each other insane.
We see people out with their babies. One day, whilst out shopping for our baby sling and toys, we sit and have a meal, there's a mum and dad cooing over a baby. We smile, as my milk leaks into my breast pads. "How old is he", my husband asks "Oh he's six weeks, born on the 8th May", they grin, proudly. "Oh same day as our son", my husband says. You can see these parents gazing at us, looking around. There is no baby.
Quickly I explain "He's in hospital, he was born at 27 weeks", then realising we now look even more daft, sitting eating Sunday lunch, talking about our baby, who is not here, when we should be there with him. They look uncomfortable, they finish their meal and they hot tail it out of there.
Walking around with a hole in your heart, a great gaping gap in your family, it's hard. "What to Expect When Your Expecting" doesn't talk about this. There is no chapter "How to Behave When Your Baby is Not By Your Side", and maybe there should be.
There are whole communities of parents who know how it feels, to have a baby but not a baby. And there are communities of parents facing much, much worse. And we think of them, and we support them, and we raise money so that we can do something to help these special parents, and these special kids. It is all we can do.
Hastily grabbing a pot of freshly expressed milk, I start my short trip down the stairs to the neo natal unit. I am stopped by one of the grandmothers, here supporting her newly delivered daughter.
"Good morning, how's little Joseph getting on today?", she asked kindly. "Well thanks, not much change, I am going home today". Her face changed, she looked at me, shocked. "What? You can't go home, you have to stay here, with your baby, or take him home with you. You can't possibly leave him here all on his own." Tears welling in my eyes, I hastily explained that there are no facilities for parents to stay and this is what is expected. "Well that is just cruel, you should not be leaving your baby here, with strangers".
I carry on and walk into the unit, gazing at my baby lying in his little box, oblivious to my presence. I drop my milk in the fridge, and proceed back to my room, packing away the pyjamas, clothes, and cards that I have amassed in my week long stay. My husband arrives and takes me home.
The next day, I get up early, express again, put the milk in my cool bag, and pop into town on the way to the hospital. I need a changing bag. I go to our local bag shop and look at the bags. The owner, not known for his stunning interpersonal skills, approaches.
"Oh you don't want one of them, that's a changing bag, you know, for a baby". I smile "yes I need a changing bag now, I've had a baby". He looks at me wide eyed, incredulous. "What? You? When?", through gritted teeth I reply "last Friday, he's just over a week old". I divert my attention to the bags, checking every detail, looking at the stitching, the little dogs on the front, the price, thinking to myself "just go away, go away go away", he says it, I know it's coming "so why isn't he here then, where is he?" I explain. He tells me I am a bad mother. I should be with him. Every minute. I buy a bag (I really shouldn't have done) and I leave.
I go to the unit, I sit by my son's incubator and I try, very hard, to swallow the tears that are welling in my eyes. I quietly open the porthole door and stroke his foot. I talk to him, I sing to him, and then I leave. Without my baby. Alone.
Every day I make the journey to the hospital. Usually alone, splitting the visits with my husband so that Joseph has me there in the morning, and Corey there at night. Every day I smile, I put on a brave face. "How's Joseph today?" people ask me, "oh just fine", I say. Yes I know what people are thinking. "If he's fine why is he in hospital?". It is so hard to explain, the need to grow, to be protected, for medication, for tube feeding. It sounds so dramatic, so acute, but it isn't. It's normal. Our new normal.
For 76 days, my baby is not with me. I go home alone. My husband and I tiptoe around each other. We are tired, we are drained, we are parents, yet we are not parents. We go out for meals, we go out for Sunday lunch, trying to have some normality and some company. We are driving each other insane.
We see people out with their babies. One day, whilst out shopping for our baby sling and toys, we sit and have a meal, there's a mum and dad cooing over a baby. We smile, as my milk leaks into my breast pads. "How old is he", my husband asks "Oh he's six weeks, born on the 8th May", they grin, proudly. "Oh same day as our son", my husband says. You can see these parents gazing at us, looking around. There is no baby.
Quickly I explain "He's in hospital, he was born at 27 weeks", then realising we now look even more daft, sitting eating Sunday lunch, talking about our baby, who is not here, when we should be there with him. They look uncomfortable, they finish their meal and they hot tail it out of there.
Walking around with a hole in your heart, a great gaping gap in your family, it's hard. "What to Expect When Your Expecting" doesn't talk about this. There is no chapter "How to Behave When Your Baby is Not By Your Side", and maybe there should be.
There are whole communities of parents who know how it feels, to have a baby but not a baby. And there are communities of parents facing much, much worse. And we think of them, and we support them, and we raise money so that we can do something to help these special parents, and these special kids. It is all we can do.