» The Soundtrack of your Life

I don't even like the song
It’s almost two years since our little boy was born and a happier, healthier little bundle of joy you couldn’t hope for. The pregnancy had gone reasonably well and we were two weeks short of the due date when Mrs Mork noticed some bleeding at about 1am. We called the maternity ward who told us it was probably nothing but, as we were clearly worried, suggested we come in for a check up. So, laughing and joking, we piled into our little 2 seater (another story…) and packed up all the paraphernalia we had been told we would need in the event of the birth: we were treating it as a “test run”.

So, we arrive at the hospital at about 2am and Mrs Mork gets strapped up to a monitor and through the sleepy haze we watch readout of our baby’s heart rate. All seems under control. The midwives, and doctors, however, are not happy; the heart rate suggests the baby is asleep but does not seem to be waking up, so they ask Mrs M to roll on to her side to wake him up. The effect on the heart rate was astounding, it dropped to about half. Cue, much muted conversation amongst the medics. After a little while the consultant comes in and says “We’re going to do a caesarean. Now.”

“Er, no, we’d rather not if possible.” (Mrs M has severe claustrophobia and the thought of being conscious but immobile on an operating table was seriously worrying)

“No, you don’t understand: we’re doing a caesarean because your baby is in distress.”
At this point things went a bit mad and my recollection is unclear. I remember Mrs M signing a consent form and I remember being taken aside to get “scrubbed up” while my wife was being prepped. I also remember being dragged into the theatre to try to calm my wife down (she was screaming) so that the anaesthetist could get the epidural in.
In the end we were all ready and I spen t the next however long (no idea) talking to Mrs M about holidays, sitting on the beach anything in fact to take her mind off what was happening to her. But eventually we saw the nurses carrying our baby around, weighing him, checking him and finally handing him to us. I will never forget those dark eyes and that rather perplexed looking face as he was handed to us. It was then that I noticed the radio was on, Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars:
“All that I am, All that I ever was, Is here in your perfect eyes
They're all I can see”
I still can’t even think of that song without a knot in my stomach, a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. At that time we didn’t know that the hours and weeks ahead would involve a dash across London in an ambulance for a possible heart operation, intensive care and special care units and more pain, worry and tears than I had had in my life up to that point. For that brief moment we had peace.

Length? No idea. Weight 5lb 13oz.
(Thu 28th Jan 2010, 15:05, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

I suspect there will be a lot of stories of this nature...
Some of you may remember the first part of the story, if not, here it is: www.b3ta.com/questions/soundtrack/post625458

So, there we are, with our new son. Me sitting, Mrs Mork lying, in the recovery room at the hospital. The midwife suggests that the baby might want to have some milk and, after a rather unsuccessful attempt at breast feeding, I offer him the bottle and he sucks on it like his life depends on it (which I suppose it did, really).

The midwife then noticed that our son was going “dusky” and, on the advice of the Paediatrician, he was admitted to Special Care, where it turned out that his blood was not getting enough oxygen for some reason. The Registrar said that, as he was a caesarean birth, his lungs probably had some mucus in them and this should clear up soon.
So Mrs M was transferred up to the maternity ward where we chatted and looked at the Bounty pack and waited for the in-laws to turn up.

At about 10:30 the Consultant from special care turned up to see us.

“What have you been told about what’s happening to your baby?”

We explained the whole mucus/lung thing that we had been told. The doctor then explained that they had, by chance, been visited by a specialist from the Royal Brompton Hospital (Heart & Lung Hospital in London) who had checked our son and it appeared that his heart had developed incorrectly. Instead of sending blood to the lungs to get oxygen, some of it was going back round the body, hence the low oxygen levels.

This would require an operation, assuming the deformity was above the diaphragm.

And if it’s below the diaphragm?

Well…let’s worry about that when it happens.

I can’t remember a lot about the next few hours: I remember my in-laws turning up shortly afterwards and having to compose myself to give them the news, I remember organising an emergency baptism, I remember weeping my eyes out in the hospital garden. Eventually, the ambulance arrived to take me and our son to the Brompton. (Mrs M, having had an operation was pretty much immobile so had to stay behind.)

We were rushed into the intensive care unit and I was taken aside to have everything explained to me: what was happening, what the problem was, what was going to happen etc. Then several doctors turned up to carry out scans on my son’s heart. At this point I started hearing people saying “normal”, over and over. The Consultant explained that my son’s heart problem was not what was originally thought. He still had a problem, but he wouldn’t need an operation. The particular problem he had would be expected to resolve itself quite quickly given a bit of TLC.

I remember being told “this is good news.”

So, in the end, the boy ended up spending a week in intensive care in Brompton, followed by two weeks in special care back home. The Brompton put us (me and Mrs M) up in one of the parents’ rooms in the hospital and even managed to find us an en suite.

Those three weeks have so many memories and stories which might come out in the future. I cannot thank the doctors and nurses involved enough. They didn’t just take care of our baby, but they took care of us as well. I could fill pages with all the kind and thoughtful things they did for us which were above and beyond their “day job”.

I’ll echo the comments of many other posters in praising the NHS. When you need it, when you really need it, it’s wonderful.

Length? felt like an eternity.
(Thu 11th Mar 2010, 14:22, More)

» Losing it

Sleep deprivation
I remember when our first child was born sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling my arms and gently rocking.

"What are you doing?" asked Mrs M.

"Shh! I'm rocking him to sleep."

"But, I've just put him back in his cot!"

"Then what am I...Oh."
(Thu 21st Jul 2011, 13:28, More)

» Awesome teachers

Ok, let's get it over with
So, I never knew my dad because he died before I was born. I was brought up by my aunt and uncle.

Something, something, Death Star, something...
(Thu 17th Mar 2011, 12:49, More)

» Dad stories

The trials of being a dad.
Last weekend I went shopping with my two year old. We managed to blag a nice pink balloon from Boots and my son was over the moon with it all day. Come the end of the day and Mrs Mork is getting our boy into the car. Suddenly I see a big pink balloon floating gently away over my head. "Oh no!" says Mrs Mork. Then an anguished wail from our son, "Dad can get it!" - just as it disappears over the trees.

Ah, such faith he has in me! The look on his face broke my heart.
(Thu 25th Nov 2010, 12:43, More)