Life With PTSD

So the two beautiful children you see in this picture are mine. My son is four this Valentine's Day. His name is Bolton Alan. He is an absolute star. And the sleepy little lady you see is my daughter, Missy-rose. She is two in February. And my, it has been a long two years.

Being pregnant with Missy-rose was not easy, to say the least. Second baby, second hyperemesis gravidarum (extreme sickness up until birth), day in and day out throwing up. I even landed myself on a drip at one point due to extreme dehydration. If that wasn't enough, my labour went on and off for over a week.

I was terrified to give birth, knowing full well, after the first, what was due to come.

It was a long and excruciating labour. I could not cope with the pain. Being needle-phobic, I always thought I'd avoid the idea of an epidural. How wrong could I be? But even this would be difficult, as I would not stay still, so in and out that went. Three times, I believe. I needed to have a cannula due to contractions not being as strong as they should be. That was a nightmare. My veins collapsed, which, at the time, I was unaware that I had already contracted sepsis. They did eventually cannulate me. In my left foot, which was sooo swollen and sore.

So the labour's now in full swing and I'm finally relaxed, as I've got some antibiotics in my system and the epidural is working a treat when I start to feel her coming full-force.

I remember laying there, freezing cold, with midwives saying that I was hot and continuing to put cold flannel on my head. I remember my teeth chattering as I felt so cold.

The moments where the pushing began, I certainly remember feeling as if the second she was born she would no longer be safe, and I was so scared for her to be born. The pushing was hard. I was on my back, legs on stirrups like being at the gynecologist; not a natural birthing position. She came out shoulders sideways and, God, was it hard work.

When she come out, she didn't cry right away. She looked so swollen, her eyes so small. They took her over to the table to check her. I was blocked by a midwife's back. I was so worried for my baby, but yet she did cry. She let me know she was alive and safe and well. And then they put her tiny body on my chest, and she was so hot. She had such a high temperature. Nurses persisted that I do skin to skin. I just wanted someone to take her and make her better. At this point, I was hot, she was hot; we weren't helping one another.

I'm not sure where they took her at this point, but I begged my mother to stay by her side.

I laid on the table, legs still up, heartbroken for my baby, alone after a traumatic birth, wondering what happened to her.

When they came back, she had a small cannula in her hand so that she could have antibiotics.

We then were transported down to the maternity ward with all the other mothers and their healthy babies, told we would be staying a few days.

What happened next would change me as a person forever.

I was awakened at midnight on the second night of being there, told my daughter needed an urgent lumbar puncture. They couldn't do a successful procedure, so had to retry the next night. My partner took her down for the second attempt, which was successful. They said results take 12 hours usually to come back.

Well, now my daughter's whatever-they-were-looking-at was growing so quickly, they came back within the hour.

At this point, Missy was under the light for jaundice, and I'd been whisked out of the the ward to get fresh air.

I arrived back onto the ward to a blank-faced partner who wouldn't make eye contact, a doctor, and a midwife telling me to sit down.

I refused, and that's when the words that have haunted me ever since were said: "We're really sorry, but your daughter has meningitis."