>I’ve never heard about Baby Aliff before until recently my friend yash blog about it and I read somewhere in my FB’s newsfeed. I wasn’t going to tell you what happen with baby Aliff because you can read more about him here. It’s just me seeing all baby Aliff’s picture remind me of the situation I’m in a year ago. Ok maybe my baby’s health problem wasn’t as bad as baby Aliff’s but the agony, it’s just nightmare.
I understand truly what his dear mother must’ve felt during the days the baby is in NICU. Like baby Aliff, Adrian was admitted to NICU two days after he was born. I remember waiting in the NICU patiently (crying inside). My baby had surgery twice. Argh, it was so painful. Baby Aliff’s condition is worst, he only had 50-50% chance to live while my baby had 99% chance. Sending him to the operation theatre is like walking with a huge rock chain on your feet.
For nearly a month, his morning routine at 6am is to be strip naked and scale his weight. Tell me about it, waiting for the screen to pop up showing he gain or lose weight is like waiting for your SPM result except this one is more nerve wrecking. I can’t breastfeed him. He can’t eat nor drinks. His weight depends on the fat emulsion they gave him and the water drip. It’s not enough. Most of the days he lost more than what he gained. He can’t be discharge until he weights gone up tremendously. His tiny and fragile hands and feet were full with needle pricks, his everyday routine again; to be prick to check his sugar level. It made me cry especially when no blood coming out and yet they have to keep pricking.
Baby Aliff is now at home wanting a baby cot/crib for him to sleep. His mum is a single mother. Anyone out there care to donate rather than sell them? A single mother shouldn’t face this alone. Let’s help her!
Tomorrow I go home from ward 6B, taking with me my healed, healthy, precious baby boy. But I also take with me the memories.
Memories of how I felt numb when told my baby would need surgery.
Memories of seeing him in the RFDS incubator. So tiny and fragile yet so brave.
Memories of feeling broken as he looked to me for milk I wasn’t allowed to feed him.
Memories of holding him as needles stabbed his skin and I couldn’t take away his pain.
Memories of nurses trying to find veins that would accept the drip, and knowing I knew it was for the best – but he didn’t.
Memories of wondering why this had happened to my son, to my family, to me.
Memories of alarms beeping – daunting at first, but now comforting in their repetition.
Memories of checking my mobile and finding so many messages from family and friends – supportive on one level, but on another, a stark reminder this really is happening.
Memories of feeling so grateful that the staffs here are so capable, so caring and compassionate.
Memories of expressing, hoping and praying my milk supply wouldn’t dry up – and that I’d get the yellow pump!
Memories of waking the day of surgery with a godsent feeling of peace. Thankful for everything, from the time I’ve already spent with my baby, to the plastic plates in the kitchen so there’s no time wasted washing up.
Memories of the smiles everyone gave us as we left him in the theatre prep area. Smiles that said “it’s ok, you’re not the first ones to go through this, and you won’t be the last”.
Memories of heaviness I felt all over as I watched the theatre staff wheeled away the table with my son on it.
Memories of crying as we walked away from the theatre.
Memories of running to see him but no memories of what I saw on the way.
Memories of the jolt I felt as I saw him. Scarred. Painted. Covered in needles. More tubes in his mouth and nose. Attached to machines that did everything from breathing for him, to relieving his pain.
Memories of sadness from knowing what had just happened to him.
Memories of euphoria and relief from knowing he’s ok. He’s through. He’ll be fine.
Memories of the pain as I watched his face redden and contort in silence as the ventilator smothered his cry.
Memories of sitting by him. Holding his hand. Stroking his hair. Staring at him. Staring at the ward. Staring out the window.
Memories of watching new mums came in and seeing the confusion and fear on their faces and remembering just how that felt.
Memories of watching dads asleep in their chair next to their babies.
Memories of mums and dads going through so much, yet selfness enough to open a door or give up a chair for someone else.
Memories of smile between two tired mums as they pass in the corridor in the early hours of the morning.
Memories of watching the babies whose parents just can’t be there and knowing how blessed I am, how blessed my baby is, how blessed my family are.
Memories of extobation…feeding…weight gain…nursery…and recovery.
I haven’t been here very long compared with others…but I have been here. As I anticipate leaving the whole thing seems so surreal. But I am leaving. I am leaving to bring my baby boy where he’s belongs. I pray that every one of you will be going home soon too, taking with you your precious healthy babies, ready to begin a journey of wonderful moments together that will take a lifetime to complete…and then be remembered for another lifetime.
I am convinced that as you sit with your baby you bring them comfort and peace and they feel your love for them. And there will come a time when they look back at you and smile. It’s a smile that means “thanks mom and dad, I love you too”.
Love, a ‘Mum’
