The Arrival of Francis James - Part 3 - Emotional Early Days

The story concludes...

Wednesday 7th March 2007

It was from Wednesday onwards that things became really hard for me. I didn't feel at all like I'd had a baby. It all felt very unreal to me. I don't know when I first cried, but once the tears came, it was difficult to stop. I felt like I'd had my pregnancy stolen from me. Reaching down and touching my soft belly where my lovely bump had been less than a day before was devastating. I loved being pregnant and suddenly I wasn't, yet I hadn't been through labour; my head couldn't get round that. I was also in a lot of pain from the surgery and the catheter and wound drain weren't doing much for my comfort or self esteem.

In the morning a doctor came to see me to debrief me on what had happened the previous day. I was told I had HELLP Syndrome, which I could vaguely remember reading about in one of my pregnancy books, but couldn't remember what it was. The only cure for HELLP is delivery of the baby which is why they had to act so quickly. Graeme researched HELLP when he got home that night and was horrified by what he read - my liver could have ruptured or I could have had a fit and gone into a coma. We had the shocking realisation that I could have died had it not been caught in time. I was left feeling eternally grateful to Fran whose intuition at my check-up had probably saved my life.

I first went to see Francis on Wednesday afternoon and had to be pushed there in a wheelchair. Seeing him in his incubator covered in tubes I was shocked at how tiny and fragile he looked. I waited for that rush of motherly love to come. It didn't. I felt nothing at all. I couldn't accept that he was my baby. I cried my eyes out I felt so bad. I couldn't even bring myself to say his name. For days I referred to him as "the baby" and felt very uncomfortable when Graeme called him Francis. He just didn't feel like mine at all. I didn't even want to hold him and it took some very patient persuading from Graeme before I could bring myself to do so.

On Wednesday night, either through coming off the morphine or through lack of sleep, I was hallucinating badly to the point where I couldn't distinguish between fantasy and reality. I was 100% convinced I'd not had a baby and that I was dreaming. I had the most horrendous panic attack and even once I'd calmed down I was still certain that it was all a dream and that I'd not really had a baby. I honestly thought I'd lost the plot and became increasingly frightened. I didn't dare tell the midwife how I was feeling - I was terrified she'd get a psychiatrist to come and see me. I didn't sleep a wink that night.

Thursday 8th March 2007

In the small hours of Thursday morning I was offered the chance of a shower. My shower was only marginally more dignified than my surgery. The only way I could shower with ease was to sling my catheter bag and drain over my shoulder. I was also in too much pain to dry and dress myself properly so a Healthcare Assistant had to help me. I wanted to go to the SCBU to see Francis again so that I could prove to myself that he was real and that I wasn't just having a horrendous nightmare. Shortly before I went there, a nurse came to my room and told me they'd put Francis on a ventilator. I barely reacted and told them not to ring Graeme, which is not characteristic of me at all. When I went through to see Francis he looked so poorly I burst into tears and the nurse persuaded me to let her ring Graeme - he was there within 20 minutes. I was so relieved to see him, as he was the only thing I was certain was real.

Later that day I was given the all clear to go back to the ward. I had my catheter and drain removed (which hurt quite a bit) and felt a bit more comfortable and human. To my horror, I was put on the postnantal ward with all the mums and babies. As much as I tried to make the best of it, I just couldn't, though I did manage to put on a brave face for my visitors. I was also upset to learn that I'd been put on Amlodipine, a BP medication which was incompatible with breastfeeding. I just couldn't understand this lunacy, as I'd told everybody of my intention to breastfeed, but I didn't have the energy to argue.

I had arranged to meet Graeme in the SCBU that night and by the time I got there I'd broken down and was screaming that I couldn't go back to the ward. I was so hysterical Graeme had to get a midwife to help calm me down. During our visit to Francis a nurse showed me how to hand-express milk and where to store it. I told her what the midwife had said about my medication and the nurse promised she would look into it for me. Afterwards I went back to the ward and tried again to cope being surrounded by babies. It was unbearable. I felt like I was being tortured every time one of the babies cried. I was constantly in tears and on the verge of panic. I was particularly upset by one mum who kept telling her one-day-old to shut up and calling her a divvy - it broke my heart. Why did this cretin, who probably shouldn't have been allowed to breed, be with her child while my baby was in intensive care?

At 1am I left the ward and went to the SCBU and told the nurse that I'd stay there all night if I had to, but I was not going back to the ward. I even threatened to discharge myself. The nurse snuck off at this point and rang my ward who arranged for me to be moved. When I was told, I broke down again, but this time with relief.

Friday 9th March 2007

I spent much of Friday on the ward hidden behind the curtains crying my eyes out. A lot of the time I wasn't even sure why I was crying. Other times I was crying for my lost pregnancy, not being able to go through labour, but most of all my lack of bond with the baby. This is probably the lowest I have ever felt.

I was also seen by a member of the Infant Feeding Team. I was not the only new mum who had been prescribed Amlodipine despite wanting to breastfeed. I was told that I would be switched to Nifedipine, but as the Amlodipine takes 48 hours to leave the system, I would have to discard my milk until then. I cannot begin to describe how heartbreaking it is going through the effort of hand-expressing milk for your premature baby, only to have to throw it down the sink. I still get angry about this now.

Saturday 10th March 2007

Saturday came and Paul and Becky visited in the evening. I was in the nursery with Francis waiting for Graeme to show them in. I was staring at this baby who I knew was mine, but he didn't feel like mine. I was feeling very low and started crying again. I asked Graeme to get me out of there (I was still using a wheelchair), by which point I was sobbing so uncontrollably I could barely speak. I remember crying out between sobs "He doesn't feel like mine!" and glancing up seeing the puzzled and concerned faces of Paul and Becky further along the corridor. I was taken somewhere quiet for a chat with a nurse and told her exactly how I felt about my stolen pregnancy, the "procedure" I had instead of a birth, my lack of bond, this not being the start I wanted for my new family... It felt good to get it all out and from this point on things did start to get a bit better for me.

Sunday 11th March

My blood results came back showing that my platelet count was back in the normal range. At last I was on the mend and would be discharged the following day. Although happy at the thought of sleeping in my own bed, my happiness was tinged with sadness at having to leave Francis behind. This was clearly going to be the start of a very difficult and heartbreaking few weeks; nobody should have to go home without their baby and I certainly hope I never have to do anything like that ever again.

Epilogue

I shall leave it there, as the rest of the saga has already been documented on the website in previous posts. However, things were far more difficult for me than I let on. The expressing milk 6 times a day was exhausting and if it wasn't for Graeme I may well have given up and resorted to formula. It was Graeme who dragged me out of bed those first few nights making sure that I used the pump; I am so grateful to him for pushing me as, 8 months on, I am still breastfeeding Francis and loving every second of it. Graeme went back to work the week after I was discharged so I had to make my own way to the hospital by public transport, which is hard work when you're recovering from major abdominal surgery. Even once Francis was home I still struggled emotionally. I found bonding with him incredibly difficult and I am certain this is down to the way he arrived.

As for having more children, I am really not sure what the future holds. Before Francis was born I wanted a large family, but since learning that I am at increased risk of developing HELLP Syndrome in future pregnancies I am very apprehensive about having another child. Thanks to the internet, I have spoken to other victims of HELLP and was delighted to discover that many of them go on to have healthy pregnancies and normal births the second time round. I would love my next pregnancy to go without a hitch and have a normal birth, but if I get HELLP again, that will be it - no more babies for me. I couldn't face going through that a third time. I can barely face the thought that it might happen next time, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For the moment, I'm just going to enjoy my little boy and try, once and for all, to put my experience of HELLP behind me and move on.

Lisa xxx