Jesse was born full term at 39+2 weeks in Jessop’s hospital in Sheffield. Other than me having high blood pressure throughout my pregnancy, there was no indication that Jesse would be poorly and need treatment in NICU. As a first time parent, I didn’t even know what NICU was.
Nothing prepared me for the moment he was rushed to NICU after an emergency c-section. It transpired that an undetected infection in my waters caused an infection and hypoglycaemia for Jesse.
I had spent my pregnancy dreaming of the ‘golden hour’ and had all the best intentions of breast feeding. Instead, that choice was taken from me without warning. I didn’t get to hold him. I didn’t get to memorise his face. He was whisked away from me, and the moments I had longed for were suddenly out of reach.
In those early hours, a quiet kind of grief set in. Not the grief people easily recognise, but the loss of tiny, irreplaceable firsts. I sat on a ward full of new parents and babies, alone, with an empty crib beside me. I grieved not dressing him for the first time. I grieved the breastfeeding journey I had pictured, one that instead became a struggle from the very start. With Jesse being so fragile, in the incubator hooked up to many wires, I was scared to hold him and my body was in a state of stress. I was physically and mentally drained. I simply couldn’t cope with the separation which had forced its way between us.
Even when we were discharged home, the emotional aftermath continued. People often said, “At least he’s well now, that’s all that matters” and whilst I was endlessly thankful for that, those words did not take away the ache of the moments we missed. I learned very quickly that being grateful doesn’t cancel out heartbreak.
