Once More Around

Dear Baby Boy,

To be honest with you I don't know exactly when you were conceived. I know it took a long time and your Daddy and I were almost ready to give up. But then there was you two lines on a test... well 3 tests actually, one has to be sure about these things. I had an inkling of course. Daddy said maybe we should stop trying and I said I think maybe it's too late for that.

Wow, another baby. A fourth living child.

I remember when I first saw you, like far to many of the moments in your life it was fraught. I had been out at a first birthday party and got horribly ill, so fast, that I was taken to Middlemore in an ambulance. It felt like I was far away from home and far away from Dad who was at another party on the other side of town.

We worried that it was you causing the sickness that had hit me. Perhaps you had taken up residence in the wrong place. The doctor did an ultrasound, she wasn't very good. But I knew, I saw you just a flutter, a flicker, 6 short weeks from when we made you there you were a flutter nestled right where you were supposed to be. Carolann saw you too, it was a sweet moment amongst the worry. I called Grandad and Sylvia and told them that you were coming.

Life was up in the air. 

Daddy had applied for a job in Perth and we didn't know if you were to be born a Kiwi or a wee Ocker baby. But we realised no matter what the decision might be, you and me, we needed looking after. And that's when we found Jackie. You couldn't have asked for a better midwife honey. She was wonderful.

You were the easiest my love. We breezed through the weeks you and me. Oh there were moments. A little more morning sickness than I would have liked and some other aches and pains along the way. But I did my very best not to worry about you and so we were relaxed. Daddy didn't get the job- you would be a Kiwi boy after all. Like your brothers and sisters before you you had a belly name, we called you Kiwifruit.

We saw you again at 12 weeks. And then at 20- goodness how you had grown. We had Scott our trusted friend at Horizon do your scans as he did with Will before you. He was great and gave us so many pictures and so much information- so we knew exactly how perfect you were growing. But one thing was a secret. Sealed away in a white envelope Scott's prediction.... girl.... or ..... boy? 

We didn't want to know, we wanted that moment in the delivery suite. We wanted to see it for ourselves when you came out all wrinkly and small and new.

Your brother became a trainee midwife every time Jackie called. Helping himself to her bag of tools. Applying the gel and sonic aid  to find your tiny heartbeat. 

We made preparations. Washed tiny clothes, pulled out the bassinet and the carseat. We ticked off the weeks. Counted down the days. Wished and hoped, and planned and prepared. 

Then the job came up again. And we waited and wondered, considered and pondered. Life was up in the air again. What if..... then what....?

At 36 weeks Dad went to Perth, one more interview and a bunch of tests. I told you to stay put and you did. He got the job! 

Once you were born we'd be going- as soon as we had your passport and were ready to fly! 

38 weeks. Another scan. I was worried about you. Jackie wanted to be sure. 

Make sure you were healthy, not too big, right way down.

Scott spent a lot of time scanning your head, measuring, checking, measuring. 

He told us what we already knew. There was a problem. 

They took us to the room. The one with the box of tissues conspicuous on the table. 

With the pamphlets and guides. 

What to do when....

A fraught weekend, waiting, worrying. Three more days, waiting, worrying. And then an appointment, more scans, more words, ideas, plans, possibilities. 

"It's ok to wait. To labour and birth you naturally."

Another day, another appointment, another doctor:

"You'll have a Caesarian tomorrow."

What? Why? Where? What changed?

Read the letter. 

Stumble, trip over the words.... baby boy.... we're having a boy, another son. Merenia will be sad. One day to go and the secret is spilled- so close and yet it wasn't to be.

The Doctors have panicked, changed their story.

Deliver they say. 

Can't induce- we know that.  

Reluctantly consent. 

Make calls, plans in place, pack bags. What about the disco? 

Tomorrow, you're coming tomorrow.

Carolann arrives before the sun. 

Kisses goodbye. 

And we drive as the night wanes and the sun ushers in the dawn.

At the hospital we wait. Jackie arrives. Preparations are made.

There are emergencies, babies with more urgent needs than yours have to come first.

It's ok. 

We get there. Needles in. Doctor arrives dressed in blue, white gumboots.

And then there's you. Lifted high. Spirited off. Dad watches and then goes to be by your side. 

I want you. I want you now.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Something is wrong. Too cold, Too fast. Too low.

Bring him to me. 

BRING HIM TO ME.

Finally. 

A quick cuddle they say. 

I remember you then, soft, moist, warm.

You stabilise with me. 

Cuddled against my skin. 

You even out. 

Face to face. 

I struggle to see you, you're so close to me. 

My eyes are blurred. 

Tears.

You have to go they say. 

Dad goes too.

I stay.

Tears stream down.

They collect in each ear.

The theatre nurse, so funny earlier, shows his soft side, but it's not his soft side I want baby boy.

It's yours.

I'm numb from my chest down and it takes so long to go away. 

Stupid uppity anaesthetist, you put too much in.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Finally. 

I can go. 

Wheeled in my bed.

To the NICU.

An incubator. 

Little heart stickers on your chest. Alarms sound. It's all new, foreign.

Time. 

Passes.

Slowly.

And then finally they give you to me. 

I won't be letting go my baby. 

It's you and me now.

I'll be the one to do your cares.

And it is so. 

The alarms cease.

And we find release.

Back to the ward. 

Mother and baby doing well.

Five hours and I am up and out of bed. 

Dad has gone home to the other kids, there's a disco to go to.

I won't let them take you with out me and you need to have an ultrasound. 

They do the scan.

The numbers are the same. We don't know what it means. Perhaps we never will.

Days pass. Visitors. Introductions. Phone calls. Cards. Food. 

Muffins, I am ravenous for muffins.

The Paed comes while I am in the shower. She tells Dad it's all fine. 

The numbers were fine and baby is well.

 Dad's relieved. 

I come back in the room and she shares the news with me.

No. I say somebody messed up. I know. I was there. I saw the numbers. 

I made her give them too me.

I went because I knew, knew I'd have to advocate for you baby. 

Knew I'd have to know what's going on. Because I am your Mum.

It's what we do. Forever and a day.

3 long days. Time for home. Enough of this. Our own space. Our own bed.

Not for much longer though. 

At 5 weeks we see the paed again. And the next day we are at Starship you are having surgery. We endure 9 long hours without food. And then I must hand you over to strangers and wait.

They put you to sleep and cut you open.

I eat. And shop. And Pump. And wait.

Home again, home again.

The next day we bid a tearful goodbye to Jackie. I don't want it to be over. 

I want to go back in time and have you normally. Go into labour. Stay at home, birth a baby.

Sad.

1 week later we move out.

Another week on and we leave.

Leave home, friends, family, the cat.

Leave New Zealand.

Life rushes. Fast. Bank accounts, tax numbers, new cars, new system, new home, new gas company,  ISP, Centrelink, Medicare, new shops, new streets, new birds, new trees, new food, new schools. 

Too much, too fast, too hard. 

Can't keep up. 

You grow and change. Too slow to see. 

But always happening. 

More Doctors. More tests. Handing you over to strangers again.

Results. Not bad. Not good. Not anything. No answers. 

But maybe, probably, no problem.

"Consult just in case.

Developing fine, no concerns.

See you in six months."

And still you grow and change. Too slow to see. 

But always happening. 

Smiling, rolling, humphing, teeth, food, crawling, words, standing.

Dancing, kissing, waving. 

Laughing

Oh the laughing!

 

And then like that it's done. 

365 days.

2 Countries.

5 'homes'.

1 surgery

2 general anaesthetics.

2 scans.

1 MRI.

Numerous assaults by your brother. 

Hours breastfeeding.

And many more sleeping in my arms.

So many:

Songs.

Stories.

Smiles.

Cuddles.

Kisses.

And laughter.

And now you're one.

Let's do it again Tama.

Once more around the sun?

Son

♥