“For me, the hardest part was the feeling of helplessness.” – Ashlee's Story

My son Felix was born on 7th March 2025 at The Princess Alexandra Hospital by emergency c-section at 36 weeks.

Just the day before, we had been told something no parent expects to hear at the end of pregnancy – our baby had developed hydrops, a rare and life-threatening condition where abnormal fluid builds up in a baby’s body.

When the sonographer told us there was fluid under his skin and around his organs, everything changed instantly. Within hours we were discussing survival odds with doctors and preparing for an emergency delivery.

Because hydrops is so rare and complex, a large team of specialists needed to be present for the birth. What we expected to be an early morning c-section turned into a long day of waiting while the full team assembled.

Felix was finally born just after 3pm on 7th March.

We had been warned not to expect to hear a cry.

But he did cry, briefly, before he was rushed straight to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU).

Charlie, my husband, went with him while I remained in theatre being stitched up. The room suddenly became quiet as most of the specialists left with Felix. I hadn’t even properly seen my baby yet.

After surgery I was taken to recovery, alone, surrounded by other mothers with their newborns while mine was being stabilised somewhere else. Eventually I was able to briefly see Felix before he was transferred by ambulance to the NICU at Luton and Dunstable University Hospital.

I travelled to Luton by car just as soon as they would discharge me after my c-section.

When we arrived at the NICU, the staff took one look at me and asked my husband if I was ‘always that pale.’ He said yes – which I still haven’t forgiven him for! In reality, I was extremely anaemic and dehydrated after surgery, stress, and the long journey. I was quickly attached to an IV drip while we tried to process what was happening to our newborn.

That first night we were given a room near the ward. When they opened the door, we burst out laughing. It had old wooden bunk beds.

I had just had major abdominal surgery, so getting into the bottom bunk involved crouching so low I thought I might split in half. Charlie climbed into the top bunk above me. There was no toilet in the room, and I was still on an IV drip, which meant walking across the hospital whenever I needed the bathroom.

At one point in the night I needed the toilet so badly that I couldn’t face the walk, so I ended up squatting in the tiny shower. There was blood everywhere from my surgery. And somehow… we still laughed.

It didn’t feel real that this was our life less than 24 hours after Felix was born.

The next day we were moved into a bungalow used for NICU parents. It was actually lovely  – a double bed, a proper shower, and a shared kitchen with other parents going through similar experiences.

But it was a 15-minute walk to the hospital, which on day two of c-section recovery felt impossible.

So we did what any desperate parents would do: we found an abandoned hospital wheelchair and borrowed it permanently. Charlie wheeled me back and forth to the NICU every day so I could get to Felix’s bedside. It was incredibly bumpy and definitely not recommended for post-surgery recovery – but it meant I could be with my baby.

The emotional impact of being in neonatal care is something that’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it.

You live minute to minute.

One monitor alarm can send your heart racing. You try to celebrate tiny milestones  – a small drop in oxygen support, the first tube feed, a stable blood result.

For me, the hardest part was the feeling of helplessness. As a mother you expect to care for your baby, but in NICU the nurses and doctors are doing the things you wish you could do yourself. My job became expressing colostrum, pumping milk, and sitting beside Felix’s incubator talking to him through tubes and wires.

Those small things became my way of mothering him.

The doctors explained that Felix had fluid affecting several parts of his body, including his organs and skin, and that his lungs were struggling to function independently. They also suspected infection.

The information we received from the NICU team was incredibly clear and compassionate. They explained everything carefully and answered every question we had, no matter how small.

Thankfully, Felix began to improve.

Within days the fluid started draining. His breathing support was gradually reduced. He went from being fully intubated to breathing independently, and he began feeding through a tube before eventually managing feeds himself.

After three days at Luton, he was stable enough to be transferred back to The Princess Alexandra Hospital to continue his care in a Level 2 neonatal unit.

That transfer felt like winning the lottery.

Today, Felix is 12 months old.

He is smiley, determined, and already scaling around the house like he owns the place. He still has a lifelong heart condition that doctors will monitor, but he is thriving  –  something that felt unimaginable in those early days.

The experience did take a toll on my mental health. Even now I still experience flashbacks to moments in the hospital and the fear we felt before his birth. Trauma doesn’t disappear overnight, but sharing our story and connecting with other parents has been an important part of healing.

Organisations like Bliss play a vital role in supporting families through neonatal care. Knowing that there are communities and resources for parents navigating NICU life can make an enormous difference during such an isolating time.

To any parent currently going through neonatal care, my biggest advice would be this: take it hour by hour. Celebrate the tiny wins. Ask every question you need to ask. And remember that it’s okay to feel overwhelmed – none of this is something you were ever supposed to be an expert in.

The neonatal teams do extraordinary work every single day, and because of them our little boy is here.