Parenthood
BABY'S FIGHT FOR LIFE
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I had my fourth child at 28 weeks' gestation after what had been a normal pregnancy.
My son Kier Steven Jan Page was born on December 1 1999 at 9pm weighing 1.29kg, around 2lb 12oz, at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, Brighton.
I had placenta abruption (separation of the placenta from the wall of the womb) and lost two litres of blood, so I had to have an emergency Caesarean and blood transfusion.
Because the Trevor Mann Baby Unit at the RSCH was closed due to a virus, Kier had to be taken to another hospital that night. I couldn't travel until the next day as I wasn't well enough.
My family had to take over the care of my other three children from my previous marriage as myself and Kier's dad had split up a few weeks previously.
They also had to contact Kier's dad to let him know what had happened.
That night was one of the longest nights of my life.
Kier had to be ventilated one minute after birth.
I and my family saw Kier and then he was taken to St Thomas and Guy's in London.
I never knew then just how long we would be staying there.
I travelled the next afternoon to London by ambulance, leaving my three children with my mother.
I arrived in London and was taken to a room at the end of the corridor on my own, away from the mums with their new babies.
A midwife took me upstairs to see my baby on the Jan Scopes baby unit for the second time.
I sat on this stool next to Kier's incubator looking at all these machines and tubes in him making all these noises, alarms going off all the time.
I've never felt so scared in all my life and so alone. I looked around at all the other babies, some smaller, some bigger.
A nurse explained all the monitors, lines etc, to me but I couldn't take it all in.
I was in shock and didn't know what was happening to me and my son. I couldn't absorb it all.
I went back downstairs to my room and out of my window I could clearly see the River Thames, Houses of Parliament and, of course, Big Ben.
I fell asleep as no one had come to see me to tell me where I could get something to eat, a cup of coffee, anything. They were so understaffed.
The next thing I remember Steve, Kier's dad, was waking me up, asking: "Kaz, is that him?" I had a Polaroid photo of Kier on my bedside cabinet.
We went upstairs so Steve could see his son for the first time. He was tearful and couldn't believe how small he was, but proud at the same time.
Steve adapted to doing everything for Kier, changing him, cleaning his mouth with cotton buds and sterilised water, and in time tube feeds and medicines.
I didn't adapt quite as easily. I felt I couldn't get close to Kier just in case I lost him. I thought it would be easier. Cowardly I know, but don't judge me.
I watched Steve tend to him, touch him. I was so scared. That was until December 13.
My other three children had come the night before to stay and spend time with us and Kier. They'd only seen him twice.
We had got this room in a place called Ronald McDonald House which was arranged by the nurse caring for Kier. It was all funded.
At 6am on December 13 the thing we dreaded most happened.
The phone in our room was ringing. I jumped from bed, panicking, and answered the phone.
Anne, the nurse who was caring for Kier that evening, was talking. I can't remember what she said, just that we had to go to the hospital ASAP.
I remember her saying: "Drive carefully." I just thought, "We haven't got a car". With the three children in tow we caught a bus to the hospital.
We were panicking and couldn't find a taxi number. We just wanted to get there and the bus ran all night. We were there by 6.30am.
Kier had had a pulmonary haemorrhage. That's bleeding from the lung tissue. His whole body had suffered. The only good thing going for him was his steady heart rate.
The ventilator was doing everything for him. He was on 100 per cent oxygen and what they call an oscillator. There was nothing more they could do.
Steve telephoned his mum to come and take my children back to Brighton.
We saw Kier's doctor. He told us basically that they didn't think Kier would pull through. And if he did, his outlook on life wouldn't be a good one as the shock had severely traumatised him and caused haemorrhages in his brain.
When I saw him lying there, his chest being pumped up and down so fast, he was so grey I cried and cried. I felt such an overwhelming feeling of love. It had been there all the time. I was just scared.
I thought: "That's my baby and he's going to die."
I felt so helpless I couldn't even cuddle him, only put my hand in and hold his tiny hand.
I prayed: "Please God help him through this, make him well."
I remember when Kier's doctor took us into the room. He was very sympathetic and was constantly telling us he was so sorry.
He left Steve and I alone and I remember us both cuddling and crying. Steve said: "Kaz, what about those kids? It's going to destroy them."
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I couldn't believe that his first thoughts were for my three children and not himself.
I've never heard a grown man sob the way Steve did that day.
By this time my family had arrived and everyone was very emotional.
I remember Steve and my brother standing either side of Kier's incubator saying nothing, just watching him.
Two grown men looking like their hearts had been ripped out.
Steve was trying to be so strong for me. But inside he was falling apart.
Steve's family arrived a little later.
The hospital told us we could sleep in this room that they had for parents. It was a long night. They also asked us if we'd thought about having Kier baptised.
Both our families left in the early hours of the next morning to make their journeys back to Brighton. The next few days we spent sleeping at the hospital and doing all we could for Kier.
All the days were the same. We tended to Kier all day, then went to the cigarette room when the nurses changed over, for a coffee, fag and to phone our families and let them know what was going on, and also speak to my children.
They were the longest days of our lives.
But Kier did improve and within a week or so he was in head box, taking oxygen through two little prongs up the nose.
It felt like a lifetime and we weren't out of the woods yet.
Kier had head scan after head scan and an M.R.I. (magnetic resonance imaging scan) to detect the damage to his brain.
Kier got stronger and stronger and eventually, on January 10 2000, he made his journey back to Brighton to the Trevor Mann Unit. It had been nine long weeks Christmas and New Year in London with three children toing and froing to hospital every day, returning at night and dreading it in case the phone rang. It was hard. The kids were bored and worried about their brother.
But I must admit Steve and I both had tears in our eyes when Kier left and we knew we were going home. They should have been tears of joy but they weren't. You see, St Thomas' had got Kier so far.
We were back to being scared. We didn't think anyone could look after him like Tommy's had. We knew all the nurses. We were on first-name terms with them.
Now we had to build our trust and faith again in the people now looking after our son.
We were warned we might not be allowed to do as much for Kier until the TMBU saw we were capable.
We said our tearful goodbyes and went back to Ronald McDonald house to pack the rest of our stuff and wait for Steve's mum to come and take us back home to Brighton.
We arrived home in Brighton and dropped our cases off indoors. Then we went to the hospital to make sure Kier was settled in OK.
It was very strange leaving our baby with total strangers on the unit where we didn't know anyone or how they worked.
We then left and surprised my three children.
Kier moved from room to room but took a long time to come off oxygen.
We then spent until March 6 2000 waiting for our baby to come home.
In that time Kier had seizures and we were told the chances of him having cerebral palsy were high.
Life has been nothing but hospitals since Kier came home. But he is doing very well against all odds and has surprised everyone.
He's sitting and babbling his first words, reaching for toys, doing things a normal baby of his age would do.
He's just a bit smaller.
He has a few problems with his right side and is going for physio. And we still don't know what the future holds.
But the outlook is a lot better than anyone ever thought.
Steve and I aren't together, unfortunately, but he is a doting dad to Kier and loves him very much.
I can't honestly say that I ever thought about premature babies until it happened to me.
It makes you realise how ignorant you are, myself included, but you never think it's going to happen to you.
I will always be eternally grateful to St Thomas'. After all, without them my little miracle wouldn't be here now and that's something I thank God for every day.
Kier is one in a few weeks' time and it's going to be one celebration.
I will never forget our time in hospital. We've been to hell and back again but it's all been worth it.
I'm looking forward to having a good Christmas this year in my own home with my children and family around us. My three children missed out on so much last year. I'm going to make it up to them this year.
We met people from all walks of life in London but we all had one thing in common, wanting our children well.
I know I'm going to have tears on December 13. It's a day I will never forget. The same as I will never forget the Jan Scopes unit. That's why we chose it as part of Kier's middle name.
I will also remember this Christmas that while we're celebrating there are families going through the same as us last year and worse.
But I'm going to keep them in my own private thoughts and shed a tear or two when my children are tucked up safe and sound in bed.
I will pray for each and every premature baby and their families. I hope they are all as lucky as me, my son and my family.
I can't honestly say I feel angry about being in London. They did everything they could to make us comfortable. I am just so grateful my baby survived.
by Karen Steele
© Copyright 2001 Newsquest Media Group - A Gannett Company