Heart Warrior

Lucy Saker - 17 Feb 18

I’ve been thinking about writing this for quite some time now. I think about it every day. Sometimes I feel sad, other times I feel a strange sense of nostalgia and fond memories. Four years ago, my little girl fell ill on holiday in Norfolk. She was six and a half months old and full of life. But we put her to bed that night, not knowing how our lives would change. We found her unresponsive in her cot and rushed her to hospital. Three hospitals, an air ambulance and 36 hours later, we were in Leeds waiting for open heart surgery.

From the moment we stepped into A&E, my body went into shock. My stomach lurched and I continually needed to go to the toilet. I felt sick and terrified and had a strange sense of needing to be with her but desperately wanting to just walk out and go home, wanting to forget about it all.

I stood in the hospital in my pyjamas. No bra and yesterday’s knickers. My phone had no charge. I was tired. I was in an ambulance on my way to Cambridge, watching my little girl with tubes down her throat, breathing for her. My husband needed a wee. These are the things I remember.

We arrived at Cambridge, where we found out what was wrong. The cardiologist who had discovered the problem didn’t realise we didn’t know and broke the news to us harshly and with no bedside manner. I felt numb, like this was happening to another family. It was quickly decided that my baby should be transported to Leeds General Infirmary to have surgery. The surgeon had said he would come in on a Saturday to operate.

The only way to get her there was by helicopter. We weren’t allowed to go with her. I remember the grief I felt when I kissed her goodbye, part of me wondering if I would see her again. I begged the doctor to look after her, all the time feeling like I was in Holby City or some other drama, as people don’t act like this in real life.

We followed by car. It took four times as long as the helicopter journey. My husband nearly missed the call to say the helicopter had arrived safely and that our baby was settled in PICU. The cardiologist met us at the door and explained what was going to happen the next day. He told us there was no choice. He told us to get some rest and come back in the morning. We went home. I crawled up the stairs and fell into bed in exhaustion. We returned early the next day with a feeling a dread in our bellies.

My Dad was there. He was strong and practical and bought me a cup of tea when we left the hospital after she’d been taken to theatre. He told me later that it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

She came out of surgery 6 hours later. The days that followed were a confusing mix of worry, elation, feeling loved, loving each other and a blur of hospitals, Costa for breakfast lunch and tea and camp beds, roof top gardens and beeping machines. In just 8 days, my little girl was home.

Although undoubtedly the worst was over, what followed were feelings of post traumatic stress, decisions on how to treat her (wrap her in cotton wool or empower her to go forth with her scar and be independent and fierce. We chose the latter), and six weeks of drugs and isolation so as not to risk infection.

This was brought back to the forefront of my mind two weeks ago when my little boy had an allergic reaction to egg. Wheezing and covered in hives, my husband said he needed to go to hospital. A sense of denial set in. I didn’t want to go. I told the man on the end of the phone at 111 not to send an ambulance. Of course I did take him. We spent the night and stayed the whole of the following day. We went to Costa for breakfast, lunch and tea. I slept on a camp bed. I didn’t have a bra on and wore yesterday’s knickers. All the same feelings returned.

My two little warriors. One armed with a killer scar and a fierce determination and the other with an Epi pen.

Lucy Saker

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