Two weeks later, the head of the Support for Learning Service wrote to us requesting a meeting—we were very surprised, as we had never heard of anyone being summoned to such a meeting. When we met, he expressed a personal reservation that even if Dale might be able to cope at primary level, there was no knowing how he would fare at secondary school. After much deliberation, we pushed home the point that he should at least be given the chance to try, which would then give us all more knowledge for subsequent discussions.
After the October break, the momentous day arrived. Now showing a noticeable bump, I walked with Dale and Henry up to Overton Primary. We had carried out many practice walks prior to this and Dale was quite happy, especially as Fraser came with us on that first day. I was going to wait with him until school began, but he quite literally told me where to go: “I’m just like all the other boys and girls,” he said emphatically. Thereafter, once a week Fraser would knock on our door and the pair of them would head off to Overton—and back again later—together. Henry and I might have felt redundant, but for the fact that we still collected and returned Dale at lunchtimes. This was firstly to give him some respite at home, avoiding the overwhelming situation of the school dining room, and secondly to give him more practice with the journey to and fro. After only a few weeks, however, he started going to the cafeteria and staying at school all day.
Friends and neighbors who had watched Dale grow up over the last six years shared our joy at his progress and seemed almost as thrilled as we were that he was finally going to his local school—even if it was only for one day a week. Many commented that they had never seen him so happy.
One afternoon, while we were at the Kumon math class, Dale pointed at a poster and asked, “Mum, what’s that sign?”
“It’s for another class called WeightWatchers,” I explained, “for people who don’t like to be fat and want to lose weight.” I should have known what was coming.
“Mum, why don’t you go to that class?” Dale queried. “You’re getting very fat.”
The issue of my twenty-six-week bump could clearly no longer be ignored—it was time to tell Dale about our forthcoming arrival.
That evening, Jamie and I sat down with Dale and explained calmly and gently why I appeared to be putting on weight. When we concluded with, “So you’ll be getting a little sister soon,” yet again, we were not prepared for our son’s response. He was totally shocked and cried with real fear. We tried to soothe him and showed him a photograph of the scan, explaining that this was how we knew the baby would be a little girl. We thought it would help if he knew he would be getting a sister, rather than just a baby. We reassured him that we loved him and that we would love both him and his sister the same, telling him he could ask us anything he liked about the impending arrival.
It took a few moments for him to absorb all this, and then he got right to the heart of the matter. “Would she be allowed to touch my trains?”
We assured him she would not and that she would have her own toys to play with.
Later that night, I was putting away some clean clothes in the bedroom when Dale approached me. “Mum, can I ask another question?”
Seeing his troubled look, I sat on the bed to give him my full attention. “Of course, ask as many questions as you like.”
With an impressively direct look and worried tone of voice, once again he came straight to the point. “Mum, if she pees herself, will I have to change my little sister’s underwear?”
Trying to keep a straight face, I reassured him accordingly.
Now that the threat to my pregnancy had at last receded, I was really enjoying it, just as I was the process of preparing Dale for his little sister’s arrival. Thankfully, he approved our decision to call her Amy, and we started referring to her by name right away, so we could all become accustomed to this new presence in our family.
To most people, the millennium was a big event, but with everything that was going on in our lives, it paled into insignificance. We didn’t ignore it altogether, spending New Year’s Eve with Lorraine and Brian, toasting the big moment with Coca-Cola. I obviously wasn’t drinking alcohol, but poor Jamie was also on the wagon in case he suddenly had to drive me to the hospital. I was now thirty-four weeks pregnant and Dale had arrived at thirty-five, so we took nothing for granted.
We didn’t spend long at Lorraine and Brian’s because there were fireworks going off, which we knew would alarm poor Henry, who was home alone with the TV on. While he had the patience of a saint, he was a total wimp on Bonfire Night, which caused him so much angst that he had to be sedated every time.
The new millennium brought two big changes to our life. After the holidays, Dale increased his time at Overton to two days a week because the initial transition period had gone so well, and the second change was in me physically—I was now hugely pregnant and ready to have Amy at any time. A few weeks later, my consultant confirmed I had signs of pre-eclampsia, and a delivery date was set for February 15.
While we had no concerns regarding Henry’s reaction to a new member of the family, we thought we should at least involve him in the preparations. Many a time when I had sat with him, he would snuggle into my bump and I’m sure he understood I was “with pup”; but in the hope that he would realize someone else was on their way, we set up Amy’s crib on Sunday, February 13, and put it in the lounge for Henry to sniff.
We thought we had until Tuesday before Amy arrived, but on Sunday night it became apparent that she wasn’t going to wait. At around 1:30 a.m., I woke Jamie with the news, “Time to go—I’m in advanced labor.” He sprang into action and got Dale up while I called Lorraine to let her know we’d be dropping him off on the way to the hospital.
Sure enough, when we arrived at the Southern General at about 2:30 a.m., it was confirmed that I was indeed in advanced labor. I was promptly wheeled into the operating room, with Jamie alongside, now gowned up and looking like one of the staff. They were mostly familiar faces from all those years ago when I had trained at this hospital, and they celebrated with us at 4:11 a.m. on Valentine’s Day as the newest love of our life was welcomed to the family—screaming and healthy.
The wreath of Dale’s favorite toy, Thomas the train, that he brought to Granny Madge’s funeral.
Dale tucked in tight with Henry.
Dale with his pal Henry.
Dale and his sister, Amy, using the Thomas activity center to help them bond.
Dale with a real-life version of Thomas the train.
Henry, painted to look like he has chicken pox, sits with Amy.
Dale with his beloved Mickey at Christmas.
Amy the veterinarian.
10
Independence
Of course what he most intensely dreams of is being taken out for walks, and the more you are able to indulge him, the more he will adore you and the more all the latent beauty of his nature will come out.
—Henry James
Knowing that Dale would need a lot of reassurance about Amy’s arrival, we had a couple of nice surprises in store when he first visited the hospital to see his little sister. A South Park video and new wristwatch were lying in Amy’s crib for him. Lorraine had also had a wonderful idea: she used her computer to make a personal card from Amy to Dale, introducing herself and noting how he owned a dog, which he really liked.
In spite of all this preparation, however, Dale still seemed wary of his little sister, so we made sure we included him as much as possible and showed him that although things had indeed changed, we cared for them both equally. We knew of course that his bonding process with Amy would be different from ours, but hoped that with our help it would progress through time. When Jamie visited me with my dad, they both fussed over Amy, taking turns at holding her, while I spent the entire visit making a huge fuss of Dale. I loved seeing my dad’s pleasure in holding his new granddaughter; after the trauma of losing my mum, he now had a thriving grandson in Dale and was looking forward to watching Amy grow up.
After five days in hospital being spoiled rotten by staff and reminiscing with colleagues I hadn’t seen in years, it was time to go home. Amy was now successfully breastfeeding, although I was very anemic, having lost a lot of blood during the delivery. Life was perfect, and I relished every minute of being a new mum again.
Driving home with Jamie, I couldn’t wait to see everyone, but as he pulled up to our house, I burst into tears at the sight of the welcome awaiting me. Lorraine and Brian had spent a fortune on big, tied bundles of pink balloons, both outside and inside the house, and the lounge was looking like a florist’s shop. Because Lorraine and Brian were such close friends—and Brian had played such an important part in Amy’s “conception”—Jamie and I decided to give Amy the middle name of Lindsay, after their last name. It was the least we could do as a gesture of how much we appreciated all they had both done for us. Henry was at the forefront of the welcome party, tail flying back and forth, with a giant helium balloon tied to his collar. I knew that I wouldn’t get Amy inside the house without greeting Henry first, and sure enough he gave me his “five-minute, five-year” welcome, ecstatic to see me again.
Once Henry had had a good sniff at Amy and satisfied himself that she was a fitting member of his pack, he accepted her graciously. We had no visitors that day, as everyone we knew gave us the space to get Amy settled in her new world. Then, on Sunday morning, Val called to check if it was all right for her and Sheena to come up and visit. I told her we’d love to see them, and they arrived bearing gifts of gorgeous baby clothes.
They were completely taken with Amy, and even though I was obviously biased, she was indeed a beautiful baby, with piercing dark-brown eyes and a full mop of wavy brown hair. Her skin looked and felt like silk, which was mostly, I think, an advantage of being breastfed. Unlike Dale as a baby, Amy was accomplished in making her presence felt, especially at feeding time.
True to form, Amy demanded a feed during the visit and Sheena handed her over to me. Jamie sat across from us all while Amy contentedly fed and I joined in the conversation. Then, while the other three carried on chatting animatedly, I took Amy off my breast to burp her and watched in horror as she collapsed on me, turning blue. Somehow my shock as a mother was overridden by my gut instinct as a midwife, and as she had just fed, I knew to hold her bolt upright and stimulate her with pats on the back.
“Breathe,” I pleaded desperately. “Breathe!”
Sheena, Val, and Jamie sat stunned as I tried to stimulate Amy’s floppy body. I knew there was a risk of her stomach contents entering her lungs, so I had to maintain her upright position and support her airway with my front hand clasping her jaw. One terrifying minute seemed like an hour, before her color slowly improved and she gave a whimper in response to my efforts. Then she let out a loud cry and my pounding heart began to calm a little.
Jamie sat in total silence, deeply shocked, unable to comprehend what was happening. Then a knock on the door announced a visit from the community midwife, which allowed Sheena and Val to leave. I explained to the midwife what had just happened, and while she acknowledged the shock we had had, she felt that because Amy had apparently recovered, there was no need for further action. She left saying we should obviously call the local hospital if it happened again and that she would come back and see us in the morning.
Keeping Amy upright in my arms, her tiny head resting on my shoulder, I still felt very scared and was uneasy about the midwife’s advice.
I told Jamie, “I nearly had to fully resuscitate her there. If it happens again, I might not be able to.”
Jamie was in no mood for ifs and buts. “Call Eleanor,” he urged. “She’ll know what we should be doing. We can’t just sit here and wait on it happening again.”
My friend Eleanor was at the time working in the neonatal unit at the hospital we’d only left two days beforehand, the Southern General. With great anxiety, I called around and managed to catch her at home. I didn’t know where to begin.
“Eleanor,” I said, in the end, “I know this is a crazy question, but can you remind me how to resuscitate a newborn baby?”
As soon as she heard why I was asking, she told me, “Don’t feed Amy again. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”
Eleanor called back to advise that because Amy was only seven days old, she still came under the care of the Southern General. She’d spoken with a pediatrician colleague there who had said Amy should be brought to the neonatal unit right away. While I got Amy ready, Jamie collected my dad, so he could watch Dale and Henry at our house.
With Amy bolt upright in her car seat, we retraced our journey of Friday morning, but with much more speed and anxiety. The whole of the way, Amy remained motionless, silent and pale, with only her breathing on my hand offering any reassurance. We were greeted at the hospital by the pediatric doctor Eleanor had spoken to, who had already arranged for Amy to be admitted to the observation unit in an incubator.
Our daughter was very quickly settled and full monitoring established. She had an oxygen saturation probe attached to her foot, which also monitored her heartbeat, setting off an alarm if the rate dropped below 100 beats per minute—the norm for babies varying between around 100 and 120. In Amy’s case, because she was cyanosed—having turned blue—when she collapsed, this might have been indicative of a heart problem. Later that night, she was put on a heart monitor because her heartbeat kept dropping below eighty, which was a significant concern in itself.
Our little daughter was also hooked up to an apnea monitor, known as an MR10. This involved a buttonlike probe being attached to her chest by a long, thin plastic line that was linked to the small monitor, which would sound an alarm if her breathing stopped for more than ten seconds. Even though technically I knew what this equipment was all about, my head was in a total spin, and I was grateful for the fact that the midwife treated me primarily as a mother rather than a professional equal, explaining everything that was going on.
Amy was also screened for any source of infection, to rule this out as a possible factor in her collapse. The midwives kindly set up a side room at the back of the unit for me to stay with her throughout, and this also allowed them to monitor her while I was feeding her.
The vacation Jamie had taken to be with us all at home was spent in a way we could never have envisaged, but at least he was there to look after Dale and get him off to school, and could also spend lots of time with me. Dale managed to visit, too; although we could see he was a bit stressed, he generally coped well with the scary environment within the neonatal unit. I was touched when Jamie told me that Dale, as well as hanging on to Henry for comfort, had started cuddling up to him on the sofa at night—something he had stopped doing long ago—because he was so worried about his little sister.
I felt very secure knowing Eleanor was looking after Amy, and when, after a successful feed, she told me to go and have a rest, I felt able to do as she asked. After seemingly endless tossing and turning, I even managed a few hours’ sleep. I was awakened at around 7 a.m. by Eleanor pushing Amy into the room in a standard hospital cart, with only her MR10 and oxygen monitor attached. It seemed that we were out of the woods.
My wonderful friend Eleanor has always been there for me. Through the hideous lows since Dale’s birth and the highs as he improved, she has been my rock—just as she was through this horrendous experience. I am eternally grateful for Eleanor’s unfailing friendship and support.
A midwife supervised for the day while Amy fed. However, just when I was confident enough to be thinking about going home, my little girl went blue and almost lifeless again. The midwife sprang into action and with the same management as before, together with some oxygen, Amy recovered. I’m not sure the same could be said for me, as by this time my nerves were in shreds. With every feed my heart was thumping in my chest. I knew I couldn’t have coped without the midwives.
Later that evening, the pediatrician spoke to Jamie and me and concluded that Amy had classical symptoms of gastric reflux—the opening to her stomach was relaxing too much and allowing milk to reflux back up the food pipe and into the windpipe, which was why her breathing was stopping during feeds. While this was truly terrifying when it happened, the treatment itself was very simple. Before Amy was fed, she needed to be given some infant Gaviscon, an antacid mixture which neutralized the milk and thickened it within the stomach, to prevent reflux. As long as she was held upright after a feed and slept in a raised position, the problem would eventually be resolved.
To my eternal relief, two days later we were given the all-clear to take Amy home, together with her new treatment and the MR10 apnea monitor. This last was really more for our benefit than Amy’s; the pediatrician knew what we had gone through to have her and thought the monitor would help reassure us. It would probably also be the only way we would get any sleep, as it was nighttime when Amy was most at risk. Before leaving the hospital, we were given full instructions on how to resuscitate Amy if she suffered another collapse, and while this was obviously a frightening thought, Jamie and I now felt more confident that we would be able to manage.
A Friend Like Henry Page 13
