Unspoken words

I was wheeled out of the Neonatal Unit back to labour and delivery, but was allowed to return to my room on the maternity base. I say wheeled, I mean pushed. Pushed or I would never have left. I could have sat there all night and zoned out everything around me. Leaving Arlo was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was clear to everyone how absolutely exhausted I was. I had protested a few times and bought myself a few more moments with our boy. Day was concerned about Arlo, but about me too. Back in the room he was put up on a camp bed next to me. We both fell into bed absolutely exhausted. (Day fell; I lowered myself gingerly.) There were so many unspoken words between us. We didn’t want to say the things on our mind to be honest.

Too scared to hope; too scared to face reality.

I know I certainly felt unsure Arlo would make it through the night. Even though I didn’t want to acknowledge the vibes that emanated from the doctors on the neonatal unit they played over in my sub-conscious. The unspoken words. I was anticipating a call to the neonatal unit during the night. Despite all of this we both still felt in high-spirits, our miracle, Arlo Arthur had survived long enough to meet us. He was alive. We were extremely worried about him and what the neonatal journey would bring, but he was here.

The tea-lady alarm signalled the dawn of a new day. The first thought on our minds was Arlo and the first words from our lips were, “no news in good news.” Day went to see Arlo, but I had to be seen to first. I had to shower. This was an experience in itself. I also had an amazing midwife come to help me start to express. I found this difficult to do myself. She had a tiny 5ml syringe and massaged to help stimulate to flow and collected some colostrum. Amazing- I had produced this, I had made this to help my baby. I was in awe. I was proud. It was labelled and stored in the freezer for Arlo, whenever he was ready for it.

I was wheeled down the corridors to see our boy. We pressed the buzzer outside the unit and told them we were Arlo’s parents, saying that felt weird. We were used to being ‘Alfie’s mum and Alfie’s Dad’ now we were someone else’s parents too.

He lay underneath his sunbed, still vibrating gently. Hands were washed and disinfected and as fast as we could, but not fast enough. We were beside him once again. We sat there willing him to fight to stay with us, to keep proving everyone wrong. Over the next couple of days this was our routine. Back to the room to eat and sleep before returning to Arlo’s bedside. It was then I was able to notice the noise of the oscillator and all the flashing machines that surrounded him, the acrid smell of alcohol-clean that clung in the air and the bleeping of drips. They were scary, really scary. I decided to take a picture, to show Alfie what to expect when he came over to see him and for us too, for Arlo and his story. To show him moving forward as the machines became redundant and the amount of drips diminished because of his progress.

After a couple of days we were called to the see the doctor. He gently explained to us that although Arlo was stable they had found something on his bloods. He had no white blood cells, none at all. They didn’t know what was causing it. It could be an infection or a problem with his bone-marrow. They recommended we bring Alfie over to meet his brother. They pushed really hard for this, and we had to wonder if they were concerned he wouldn’t survive long enough to meet his big brother. The doctor explained that if Arlo caught an infection they could give him antibiotics, but with no white blood cells he would be unable to fight himself.

They didn’t know Arlo.

We had planned for Alfie to come over in a couple of days. Day was to return home 4 days after Arlo was born. He wheeled me in my wheelchair the day after Arlo was born. I have to say I wasn’t a fan of ‘Daymo the carer.’ His driving of the wheelchair scared the life out of me; empty corridors are race tracks after all. And there was that time when he forgot something from the shop, abandoning me on an angle in the middle of the walkway where people glared at me as they busily tried to get to their appointments. Unable to do anything else, I laughed (cautiously) and avoided eye contact! In preparation for his return home I started to walk 2 days after my c-section. He pushed (raced) me down to the shop and I was to walk back. I can’t remember what he did, but it resulted in me doubling over and holding my stitches together with laughter.

We had to have this, we had to have these moments of uncontrollable laughter. Otherwise the constant worry was too much to bear.

Day leaving terrified me. Thinking about it now makes me well up. There was no change in Arlo’s condition since birth. He was fighting hard, but was extremely poorly. We had to have a talk, and if things changed Day would be with us as soon as he could. Just like Arlo’s birth. I didn’t feel strong enough to go it alone. I was so emotional. I didn’t know how I would cope. I was terrified I wouldn’t do Arlo justice, terrified I wouldn’t hold it together while talking to the doctors, terrified of being alone. My heightened emotional state didn’t help things either. Everything was magnified and amplified and felt truly overwhelming.

The short, sharp fact was; Day had to leave. He would be back in a few days, but he had to leave and I would be alone. It took all my strength not to cling onto his leg and scream at the top of my lungs. It wasn’t easy for him either. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to. I just wanted us all to be together as a family. I wanted to still be pregnant and be at home with Day and Alfie. I wanted both my boys together.

Getting used to picking myself up, I had to do just that. I had some time to cry, but then it was time for a quick dust-down before I slowly walked, still hunched, to the neonatal unit. Frustrated with myself for not being able to move faster. I had a reason to be here, a very important one. Arlo Arthur Owen. Managing to justify the fact I now had MORE of a reason to be here, I had a poorly baby who needed me.

Hands were washed and disinfected, growing in confidence I settled myself by Arlo’s side, where I would remain as long as I was needed.

When my eyes grew heavy after staying longer than before, I kissed my fingers and placed them on his head and with whispered, “keep fighting.”

That he did. The very next morning we had our first lot of good news.

Upon arrival the next day, I was told Arlo no longer needed the oscillator.

He was showing just what he was made of. Every doctor was amazed but this was only the beginning; showing off and proving them wrong!