Becoming a Heart Mum

Becky Winton - 19 Sep 18

As anyone who has read my blogs before will know, it normally takes a while for me to write, and generally by the time I come to publish them, the content is weeks out of date and whatever was on my mind at the time is no more, replaced by something new or more pressing. This is generally because my days are spent looking after children and if I get time in the evenings (*if* they’ve all gone to bed, I’m looking at you, baby and toddler) I’m generally so tired that I write for five minutes before my eyes start to close. This time, though, the reason that I’ve taken so long to write this is more complex. There is so much that I need to say about my daughter, the weeks and circumstances leading up to her birth but I’m finding it difficult to find the right words. Let me explain…

Our middle child is our rainbow baby, born after two heartbreaking miscarriages, but things went so much more smoothly when it came to baby number three. After a few anxious months, our first scan brought good news, and then the anomaly scan at 20 weeks confirmed that everything looked good (“It’s a girl!” she said). We were told that my placenta was laying very slightly low and that I would need to be rescanned at 32 weeks just to check that it had moved but that there was nothing to worry about.

We trotted along blissfully through the the second trimester, planning for a third home birth having loved my previous two with the boys. I tried to remember every second of this pregnancy, committing to memory every kick, every niggle, remembering how it felt to get to know that tiny human growing within. I knew that a low-lying placenta would mean that I couldn’t have my home-birth but remained pragmatic about this – “whatever it takes to get baby out safely” I’d say.

So at 32 weeks, we watched our little human dancing on the ultrasound and waited patiently as the sonographer took measurement after measurement. Positive thoughts, as I watched my daughter’s tiny heart beat-beat-beating on the small black screen. “All looks good, although baby is a little on the small side” she said.

The following day, a call from my midwife. “Baby is measuring really quite small” she said. “Rest up, eat loads of good food, lots of protein, and let’s scan again in two weeks”.

Two tuna-filled weeks later another scan. This time I went alone, leaving my husband looking after the toddler. He didn’t want to miss it, feeling like it was a bad omen (the last time he missed a scan they confirmed a missed miscarriage) but “it’s just a growth scan, I’ll be fine” I said.

Watching the sonographer’s face, I knew something wasn’t right. “When did you have your last scan?” he asked. “Where did you have it?”. I stared at his furrowed brow, his face becoming a slight frown. “Is everything OK?” I asked “I just need to check something with the doctor” he murmured, leaving the room, closing the door, leaving me inside, alone, terrified.

Minutes felt like hours and he returned.

“There’s a problem with your baby’s heart”.

I felt like at that moment someone filled my head with treacle. And I’m pretty sure I’ve not been quite the same ever since.

Weeks followed in a blur. This was my  last ever pregnancy, I’d wanted to immerse myself in it, to daydream days away thinking of the newborn snuggles to come but everything was cloaked in this murky, grey anxiety. We knew nothing. The doctors couldn’t tell us much beyond the name of her heart condition ‘Atrial Septum Defect’, a hole between two chambers of her heart which may mean NICU, may mean nothing, may mean urgent surgery. Lots of possibilities, no certainty.

And then she was here. The most beautiful, perfect little girl I ever did see. She was pink! Not blue, as many Heart babies are, but glorious, healthy pink. The doctors bustled around her, checking her over, making decisions. Her vitals showed that she was doing well, so well that following a scan of her heart we bypassed NICU and went straight to the postnatal ward. Anxious days passed, we waited for news. But a few extra visits from paediatricians were the only indication that our girl has a broken heart. We could hardly believe it: the range of possible outcomes that we had been given and she was off the scale, better than anyone had predicted. We’d been warned that there may be months in NICU ahead of us, I’d cried so many tears for my girl, for the time I’d lose with my boys. And then it was day three and we were packing up the car, putting our tiny baby into her car seat, driving away from the hospital with goofy grins on our faces and a pit of worry deep inside our bellies, just like other new parents. But not the same: feeling like at any moment the phone would ring to tell us that there had been a terrible mistake and that we needed to return to the hospital, to one of the raft of worse scenarios that we’d been preparing for.

So here we are now, 4 months down the track, none the wiser as to what lies ahead for us, and for our incredible baby girl. It’s been a wonderful, loud, chaotic, exhausting, ‘normal’ four months adjusting to life with a new baby. Every now and then as I go about my everyday life I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe, just for half a second, as I remember. Picturing my baby girl on the operating table, she’s too small, it’s too much. It’s too easy to forget when everything is going so smoothly. When people ask how it’s all going, people who don’t know, I feel my whole body swell with pride. “She’s doing so well” I say. They don’t know what this means. Is she sleeping through the night? I don’t care. Does she nap in her bed? It doesn’t matter. Is she feeding well? She’s feeding just fine. Is she a ‘good’ baby? She’s just perfect.

Becky Winton

A mum of 2 brilliant boys, originally from Wales and now living in Wellington, New Zealand. An ex-accountant now working in in-home preschool childcare!

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