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A Fateful Monday


The children went off to school the next morning - they were worried but I did my best to assure them that everything would be OK.

I got to work around 9am, I was pleasantly surprised to start receiving text messages from Amanda who was in a really positive and jovial mood.  The medical team were to scan her later that morning, she could still feel the baby moving around and she didn’t feel too bad.  The texts went on for a while, just laughing and joking saying that only a girl could bring this much trouble and think about the mayhem she will cause when she’s a teenager etc.  Around 11am I got a totally different type of text, she said that she felt unwell, could not keep still, freezing cold and in need of medical assistance.  I tried to ring her but could not get an answer, she didn’t respond to any text messages either.  I was worried now, really worried but I told myself that the most likely outcome was that the medics were finally giving her the official scan.

I felt helpless, I couldn’t concentrate – I wasn’t any use at work surely, January is the most important time of year in my industry with the lead up to the payroll and tax changes becoming effective in April.  I wasn’t any use to anybody that late morning and early afternoon.  Amanda had been taken for her scan, which was the good news. 

I had agreed with my bosses that I would be leaving the office at around 2pm.  That time came and I knew I was low on petrol so had to go and fill the car up on the way to the hospital.  I had a reasonable amount of cash in my wallet so I decided to use that rather than use the self-serve machine.  My phone was placed on the in-car charger and to get things done as quickly as possible I left it there and queued up to pay for the petrol.  Whilst in the kiosk I had a missed call with an ‘unknown’ number, I felt a large amount of panic come over me, it could have been a customer but more likely the hospital.

I drove off towards the hospital, the phone rang again, I fumbled around placing it on loudspeaker, I spoke to a nurse and she told me to get to the hospital as fast as I can as Amanda was in a really bad way.  I could tell from the nurses’ voice that when she said quickly she meant literally in the next few minutes.  In my blind panic I managed to stall the car at a large roundabout.  Anyone who lives in and around the Kettering area will know what I mean about the A14 road works during the winter of 2013/14 caused by the construction of an additional lane between junctions 7 and 9.  The journey to the hospital from the petrol station is only around 3 miles but probably took 20 minutes – it must have seemed like 2 hours but in truth I just don’t remember it.  Thankfully. I was familiar with the maternity wing at Kettering General Hospital so locating Amanda was not an issue.  I thought to myself that I really don’t know what I am walking into, I thought of Amanda’s children and her parents as I was rushing through the corridors.  The fact she was going through this was down to me or at least in felt like that, it was their mum and their daughter and I had put her in this danger.  I became aware that if something happens to her, they will probably forever hold me responsible.  I don’t think anything could have prepared me for walking through the door of the delivery room.  She looked so pale, so ill – no energy in her, she was ringing wet and looked like a little girl.  She had been put onto an intravenous drip via a cannula so she wasn’t really coherent but she did briefly acknowledge me with a half-smile, gripped my finger and whispered ‘I love you’.  At this point I realised she was in grave danger and her recovery above anything else was all that mattered.

I asked a consultant about the scan, it showed that there was no water remaining, not a single drop and Amanda as a result had caught septicaemia, it was almost certain that the baby was affected and for the sake of both mother and baby delivery must happen immediately.   I was angry, very angry but I couldn’t show it, not in front of Amanda.  Word was starting to get out around the family and the close circle of friends, my phone was bombarded with messages.  I was trying to tell people to keep calm, I wasn’t calm anything but… more in a state of disbelieving shock but I couldn’t tell them that.  I responded to the main family members, it didn’t seem right me texting away by her bedside but in this day and age communication is everything and the last thing I needed was inaccurate rumours and the children finding out how ill their mother/step-mother was and the plight of their baby sister.

There was doctors, consultants, paediatricians, midwives, nurses everywhere and it just wasn’t obvious who was in charge.  At some points, it seemed like they had a clear plan then at others they would leave the room and hold discussions and on occasions were waiting for different consultants to come and offer their evaluation, given the highly unusual situation they were in it may be a little unfair but it seemed like a circus to me.  I was being calmed by a midwife, a wonderful lady called Karen.  Whatever she goes on to achieve in her career I don’t think she will ever earn her money more than she did so on that evening.  Thankfully, the medical team managed to stabilise Amanda and she quickly became aware of her surroundings.  To come around and be in the early to mid-stages of labour must be a terribly frightening experience but as at any other point in our relationship Amanda was more concerned about how I was coping, my state of mind, she was amazing.

The labour progressed, the medical team were reasonably happy.  They were pleased with the weight and length of Mia considering her weeks.  I was told to prepare myself for many weeks of Mia being in a specialist baby unit and for her to be very ill, perhaps a lifetime of severe illness but many children born at such early weeks have survived, some in that hospital and there was every chance of a happy ending.  The one benefit if there could possibly be one with a labour at 25+5 weeks gestation is that the labour is unlikely to be a long one.

Mia Jean Osborne was born on 13th January 2014 at 6.23pm weighing 1 pound and 8 ounces, she was the tiniest thing I ever have seen.  She was silent, no crying and briefly placed onto her mum’s chest before being quickly taken to a small baby unit in the corner of a room where the medical team frantically tried to revive her.  As she was taken away, I see her move her right leg slightly but in a very slow motion almost like she had given up the fight.  Amanda was still somewhat under the influence of the medication and was not really aware what was going on, she asked me if Mia was alive I said Yes, I told her that she was fighting and I see her move her body.  It was clear to me within 5 minutes of the medical team working on her that their efforts were futile.   Amanda kept saying to me ‘don’t let our baby die’ it was a hopeless situation, I knew the eventual outcome way before it was confirmed but I had to give Amanda hope.  We were traumatised, saying silent prayers, clutching each other’s hands.  At 6.45pm, our worst fears were confirmed, 22 precious minutes after her birth the head paediatrician placed Mia in my arms, right next to her exhausted mum and her end of life was pronounced.  I can’t begin to put the feelings of untold grief into words, I like Amanda, have dealt with tragedy in the past but this was on a completely different level, this was unimaginable pain.  My first thought was that I had let my daughter down, every little girl’s first hero is her daddy and I couldn’t and didn’t save her.  My second thought was my immense pride in Amanda, that little girl could not have had a better, braver and more loving mummy.  It may be just how we remember things but the consultants seemed so cold and detached, they said that they had done all they can and any questions we have should be asked when we felt ready before they slipped away for  an evening with their families.  However, the midwife and other nursing assistants were amazing, they were just so upset, and some had stayed way past the end of their shifts to comfort us.  The tears and devastation in that delivery room was something that we will always have with us – it was so evident that our baby girl was so loved by those that remained in that room, they could not believe what had happened.

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