So here I am, unable to bond with my bump for most of its term and then holding my new baby in my arms for long enough to know that I don’t ever want her out of them again, when BANG! She’s taken away. I had only just got her. I was only just waking up to the feeling of wanting her.
Having
my baby removed from me remains a blur. I was on such a high from having given
birth that I went along with everything in a very surreal bubble; one that
totally denied the seriousness of the situation.
I
first heard her scream when the doctor tried to fit a cannula in to her tiny
form. I didn’t like it at all and tears sprung to my eyes. Her veins were too
delicate, and so tiny, the cannula wouldn’t go in. It couldn’t go in. Yet it
had to be done. But the doctor couldn’t manage it, and it was left aside for
another more senior paediatric doctor to insert. And when he did, she screamed
some more.
That
screaming only served to reinforce my fragile bond with her and as I wiped away
the tears that fell, Simon held me and I him. We were both so helpless. And
both so desperate to comfort our new baby. But as we were left standing
together in the background, she was taken away to Special Care.
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