It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Indeed, over the last few weeks my tweeting has been practically non-existent too. So, what was my reason for falling off the social networking map I hear you ask? Allow me to explain:
It’s a few weeks back, the early hours of the morning, a heavily pregnant Mrs D has got up for another bathroom break, got back into bed and mumbled something to the effect of “I think my waters might have just broken”. I’m not a morning person, I’m even less of a 3:00am in the morning person, so in my semi-conscious state I mumble a reply to the effect of “Meh, I’m sure it’s not that, you’ve got a couple of months to go yet…”.
We go back to sleep. Well, I go back to sleep and Mrs D tries to relax, however, at 5:00am on her next bathroom break the same thing happens again. Okay, this is serious. We get up, Mrs D calls the hospital and they tell us to come in straight away. We wake up Little Miss D, put a coat over her pyjamas and get ready to leave the house while she drinks a very early morning cup of milk, looking annoyed and confused - she’s not a morning person either, well unless it’s HER that has made the decision to get up at a ridiculously early hour, then it’s fine.
Mrs D, being the organised person that she is, had already packed her hospital bag so we pick up a few other essentials and bundle into the car for the dash to the hospital. We arrive quickly, an upside of travelling at this unearthly time of day is that there is no traffic on the roads and more importantly, I can get a parking space at the hospital – the staff at the Medway Maritime Hospital are fabulous but the parking facilities are woefully inadequate.
We get to the labour ward and they check Mrs D over. Yes indeed, her waters have broken. They decide that she’ll be admitted to the ward for the forseeable future. It seems a bit unreal, I keep telling myself that she’s not due for 2 months and that Little Miss D was nearly a week late! It’s a lot for both of us to take in, especially when they announce that they will need to inject our unborn baby with steroids in order to help his lungs develop whilst giving Mrs D drugs to try and hold off full-blown labour. Scary stuff… Nanny C arrives at the hospital to offer some much needed support and reassurance and she brings Little Miss D home.
The next few days are somewhat of a blur, I’ve got a bathroom in “mid-renovation” stage that I really need to finish, the way it stands at the moment it should really be called a bathless room. The plasterer and electrician start work and are gradually filling the house with dust, the plumber is on standby for when they’re done, Little Miss D is staying with Nanny and Grandpa and I’m running backwards and forward to the hospital (usually on the bus due to the damn parking issues). Mrs D is doing well on the ward, she’s resting, her blood pressure is the lowest it’s been in ages, Bump D is being monitored and is active and stable. She’s still losing her waters but it’s a gradual thing and the consultants don’t seem concerned.
I spend a couple of nights at my folks’ place, it’s nice to have their company and my mum’s Italian cooking is legendary. We have the mandatory “It’ll be fine, Mrs D in the right place” kind of conversations and my dad helps me try and figure out a game plan for getting our bathroom finished and functional.
On the one night when (for reasons unknown) I decide to turn my phone off, I’m greeted with a voicemail the following morning: “Mr D, this is the hospital, your wife has just been taken for an emergency caeserean”.
(After being on the ward for a week, Mrs D had stopped losing any more waters and the consultant decided that there wasn’t enough left to sustain Baby D and he needed to be out.)
It turns out I missed the call by a matter of minutes, surely I can still make it? I’m out of the house and into the car, it may be a couple of tonnes worth of Volvo but it’s a T5 (the traffic cops used to use them) so I make rapid progress to the hospital (observing the speed limit at all times, of course), only to be greeted with no parking spaces when I get there. Bugger… I pull in a few streets away and burn some shoe leather…
I’m too late and I’ve missed all the fun (if you can call it that), our little man was born a few minutes before I got there and is already in the special care unit. The surgeons are happy with him and the operation, he came out crying, weighs just over 5lbs and all things considered Mrs D is feeling surprisingly well.
I get to see him a couple of hours later in the special care unit, he’s all red and wrinkly and looks a bit like a tiny Winston Churchill! They let me hold him and change his nappy, I wish I could have shared the moments with Mrs D but she’s still recovering from the operation, she manages to visit via wheelchair later that evening.
We spend the next few days backwards and forwards to visit our little dude, he’s breathing on his own, has developed the necessary suck/swallow reflex and is enjoying the milk that Mrs D has managed to express at such short notice. In fact, both him and mummy are making such good progress that they are allowed home, great news apart from the fact that I’ve still got the workmen in and the house is a shambles. With that in mind they spend a week with my folks while I restore a bit of order and finally, after what seems like a lifetime, we’re back together.
Little dude has developed a huge appetite and has now put on nearly 2lbs. Little Miss D has been really good around him too, getting her the dolls to “practice” with was an inspired idea, she’s very gentle with him and is always keen for a cuddle. We try and involve her as much as possible to stop her feeling left out or jealous – “Help daddy get him dressed, help mummy change his nappy, etc…” and so far the toddler tantrums have been kept to a minimum.
So, things are pretty normal now? Well, not exactly, there’s still the bathroom to decorate, the sleep deprived nights to get used to again, oh, and I need to find a job for 6 months very very soon to cover the shortfall in income from Mrs D’s statutory maternity pay. No pressure then… Ah well, at least life is never boring in our house and I wouldn’t have it any other way :)
At this point I’d just like to thank everyone who helped us at the Medway Maritime Hospital; Kent Ward, Pearl Ward but most of all, our families and the staff in the Oliver Fisher Special Care Unit – you guys are legends, if we ever come up trumps on the lottery then you’re getting a very generous donation from us. Thank you.
