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Being a Skaboo dad- An open diary (CW – Mental Health, Cute Pics)

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I’ve decided to write this here for two reasons.


Firstly, it’s somewhere I can pretty much guarantee Mrs Returns will never see it. It’s not that I am being secretive, or that I am saying things that I don’t want her to know about. It’s just that right now, for reasons that will become apparent, she doesn’t need this on her plate. I may decide down the line to share this with her, or I may not.

Secondly, I hope this helps me to throw a torch onto my own mental health, but in an environment that, whilst including a number of very close friends, does not contain my entire world like, for example, facebook.

This is the story of our last few days, and I will be building upon this with updates as I see fit / find the time. I openly invite comment, criticism, agreement or others shared experiences that are similar.

 

I’ll start with a summary.

Mrs R has wanted children for many years, I have a 14 year old already from a previous relationship. It’s taken a very long and painful time for us to achieve the happy state of carrying a parasite.

Our due date for bump’s impending arrival was 15th January 2020.

On Sunday night, all that changed, in a hurry, and in pretty traumatic fashion.



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  • Earlier in the evening, Mrs R had been knelt on the floor writing cards and wrapping presents, generally getting stuff done for our last Xmas as a couple. We had longer than necessary deliberations about whether to include “Bump” in our Xmas cards going out to different people, on different tiers of the card list. (Some got it, some didn’t. Meh!)

    We settled in to bed, ready for us to both get up for a normal school day on the Monday, with both of us having 10 more teaching get ups before Xmas, but her having the added bonus of Maternity leave kicking in at the end of the holidays, for a nice, relaxing end to the pregnancy period.

    At 2am, she woke me up. “I think my pelvic floor muscles have given up. Bump won’t stop booting my bladder and I can’t stop weeing. I’ve leaked all over the bathroom floor”.

    Blurry eyed me took a while to come round, but it took me just a few seconds to negotiate around her abject denial, and tell her that her waters had broken. I rang the hospital, they wanted us in immediately.


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  • 34.4

    This is just a number. In most contexts it’s fairly harmless. In the context of seeing it written up on a white board, in a delivery room at the big hospital you only go to if you have complications, it means a lot more. The number, of course, relates to the age of our bump. The gestation period, to be more specific. It’s not a horrendous number in relative terms. 25 is way more scary, and has a pretty horrid survival rate. It did, however, strike us as a very low number to be in the situation we found ourselves.

    That first day, (Monday) was pretty terrifying, in an entirely boring way. We were told that even with waters breaking, they would hope to keep bump inside until 37 weeks. The main issues being infection, and if labour actually started. We had some minor contractions but not a lot else. We were however, told in no uncertain terms, that Mrs R was not going anywhere for at least 48 hours for observation, anti biotics and potentially steroids to ensure that bump got a bit of a shift on with getting it’s lungs working, just in case.

    I was duly despatched to ring two different school head teachers, and give them the news that neither of us would be in that day, or indeed the next, and that I would update them in due course.

    Breach

    The second scary thing on the white board. We knew of course, from our 32 week scan, that bump had not yet decided to dive for the exit, and was instead keeping an eye on the periscope! We were about to start the prescribed exercises that should encourage it to head south for the trap door, head first. Suddenly though, this was now a bit more serious. Time, as they say, was of the essence. Bump was having none of it. As various scans and massages bordering on torture were applied throughout the day, not only did Bump abjectly refuse to even contemplate the possibility of facing door number one, it pretty much kicked it in. Contractions started to build in both frequency and intensity, and by evening, we knew that the game was up.

    We were then starting to get very serious faced consultants in far more serious and monotone outfits visiting us, throwing statistics at us and urging us to make a decision, whilst at every stage, assuring us of course that the decision was ours. The nurses and midwives in the clown pyjamas were still hovering around, but the seriously attired ones were definitely calling the shots.

     


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  • LegionreturnsLegionreturns Frets: 7965
    edited December 2019

    Day 2 - Tuesday

    By about midnight, the contractions had built to a level that was proper labour, bump had not moved, and given that it was only 34.4, the risk factors were stacked in such a way that we only really had one choice. We signed the paperwork, and within what seemed like minutes, we were all being whisked off to theatre. I had about 3 minutes to throw all the stuff we had into bags, put on my own clown PJs, and then we were off.

    At precisely 1:29, after a considerable struggle, akin to a couple of prop forwards rooting around the bottom of a scrum, two surgeons triumphantly held aloft a very, VERY tiny baby. In a flash it was waved at me, so I could announce, when prompted, what flavour of under carriage it had (Like father like son: the answer was extremely obvious! Good lad! ;P )and then he was promptly bundled over to the other corner of the theater, where he had his own little team of waiting doctors who began the work of ensuring he got through it in one piece.

    We had a son!

    We *had* a son. A few seconds later, he was whisked away from us, and we didn’t see him again until many many hours later. We were left in a, suddenly relatively empty operating theatre, while a small team played a fantastic round of reverse Operation on Mrs Rs inners. It took a good hour. Apparently, in the struggle to release our little lad, they had caused quite a bit of structural remodelling. The little blighter had apparently got his head stuck under her rib cage, hence the apparent refusal to turn around.

    The room felt…empty. I was left holding Mrs Rs hand, while she listened to the team checking the various bits of kit back out of her and checking they’d left nothing behind. This was not a natural feeling at all. We had just had a baby boy, but he wasn’t there anymore. He was all on his own, somewhere away from us. I glanced over at the doors he had left by several times. The people who weren’t involved in reassembling Mrs R offered reassuring noises about Skaboo (SCBU – Special Care Baby Unit) being very good at what they do, and told us that he was breathing on his own already, which was a very good sign. It still felt…I don’t know. Really lonely.

    After patching up, a brief stint on recovery, and then being whisked away to a ward, we were sort of sat with not a lot to do apart from the brief appearance of a nurse to check vitals every hour or so, until morning.


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  • Day 2: Tuesday proper!

    At about 5am, with Mrs R just needing to sleep, and get past the drugged off her tits phase of post op, I was offered the chance to go and see our boy in Skaboo. I felt guilty. On the other hand, Mrs R just needed to sleep, and in any case wasn’t allowed or able to go anywhere and at least one of this little lads parents should go and let him know we’d not abandoned him!

    It was a terrifying first proper meeting. Not least because, upon clearing security and avoiding the lasers and gun turrets (Skaboo take security very seriously, for obvious reasons!) I entered the Skaboo ICU and suddenly realised, I didn’t have a clue which baby was ours. It was also a bit like entering a cryo chamber on a long distance space ship. Every single infant was cocooned in Perspex, with tubes and lights and bleepers and flashing numbers (34.4 had now changed to 34.5, progress!) and the team bustled between each mini survival ark with precision and determination.

    I was shown to the right ark, and suddenly, there he was. I was actually pretty surprised, he seemed to have far fewer things sticking out of or in to him than many of the preemies. Perhaps that was because his number was bigger, and the fact that he seemed to have worked out breathing all on his own. I was allowed five minutes with him, before being escorted back up to the ward. That first meeting was tough, and I still felt guilty after it.

    By 10, Mrs R had managed to get enough mobility that I could help her with a shower. It was not at all glamorous. For either of us. Not AT ALL!

    Getting into something more comfortable was good for her though, and the gown was dispensed with in favour of a loose nightie and dressing gown. We were finally to be allowed down to see Albert (Oh yeah, he had a name by that point! What awesome parents we were already turning out to be!). We were briefed on the rules and regs of Skaboo, and then issued with a wheelchair and a guide to get us there.

    The second meeting was better. Not least because I didn’t have to carry any guilt with me for this one, as we were both there. We were allowed a cursory cuddle for five minutes each, with Albert sausage rolled and hatted to protect him from the temperature outside his ark, and then he was put back. We briefly protested that at least Mrs R would like some skin to skin with him at some point soon, as they still hadn’t had that bonding, oxytocin enhancing moment which you’re supposed to get at the earliest opportunity. This invariably happens as soon as they pop out, but not if your number is 34.4.

    Later on that day, the first of the gleeful relatives arrived to pay their respects to the holy child, with gifts of go… no. Wait. Now I think of it, there was nothing. Not even Myhr! Anyway, they wanted to meet the new sprog, and were duly taken to Skaboo by Mrs R, one after the other (only two humans are allowed near an Ark at a time, or the proximity mines go off) and I waited in the corridor outside with the currently not admitted grandparent. At the end of all the swapping, I was asked if I wanted to go in for a quick cuddle, as he had again been temporarily released from his pod. I of course gleefully accepted and went for a snuggle.

    When the grandparents left, it dawned on me that I had only had 5 hours sleep in the last 72, and having helped Mrs R settle, I headed for home and a proper sleep.

    When I hit our empty bed, in our cold, empty house, it dawned on me that I really didn’t know anything about my lad yet, and neither did Mrs R. It all felt a bit…sad. I resolved to put such thoughts to the back of my mind, and get back to Mrs R to give her the support she needed in her recovery. It was a patchy nights sleep at best, but I slept.


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  • Day 3: Wednesday

    Today was a tough day. Mrs R was on a very low eb when I arrived. She still hadn’t had skin to skin, she was as yet unable to get much milk out and was stressing and tearful about that, and was generally feeling very unhappy about not knowing much about our little lad.

    I resolved to do something about this. I went and spoke to the most seriously dressed person I could find, explaining our woes and concerns in as much detail as I could. I must have picked the right outfit, because within half an hour, we had been visited by a number of relatively seriously dressed people, who all made reassuring noises, and then made a plan. By 2 pm, we were in Skaboo, with two nurses explaining in great detail exactly what was going on, and bending over backwards to help us do things. We changed a nappy, albeit by sticking our hands in through the portals in his ark (his first poo! Yay!) and then, finally, the moment arrived. They settled Mrs R into a comfy chair, brought out a screen for her to hide behind, and she got her skin to skin. In fact, she got nearly an hour. Both her and little Albert were suddenly the two most chilled out people I’ve seen in a long while. It was amazing! One of the single finest moments of my adult life. Mrs R asked if I wanted to have a turn (I did, more than anything in the world, but right now, this was her moment, and she needed it far more than I did, as did the littlun) but I just sat with her and our boy, watching on as the stress slid from her with an almost audible sigh.

    I’ve just arrived home, having helped Mrs R get to bed, been past Skaboo one more time to see Albert, and then driven 25 minutes home to my cold, empty house again.

    Latest news is he might be home by Xmas, but we shouldn’t count on it. Mrs R will likely be home by the end of the week, but will need a lot of looking after.

    At some point tomorrow, I will try and get some time with him, but the brave face is starting to hurt and slip. I know I have to be strong and supportive. I know I have to be prioritising Mrs R, and I know that my time will come. I also know that this is really really hard, and it’s not going to get any easier. I want my family home, well and together. It’s gonna be a long wait.

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  • The scary first pic...


    In his Ark!



    My first cuddle 


    A happy Albert finally gets his first skin to skin with mum 

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  • Just read the wonderfully written whole piece mate...

    Congratulations =)

    Ive just prayed with every bit of energy within me life, love and hope for little Albert and you and your wife. 

    Thanks for sharing.
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  • RobDaviesRobDavies Frets: 3062
    Wow.  What an amazing, rollercoaster of a story.   

    Congratulations to all three of you....  I hope that you get Albert home for Christmas.  x
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  • sweepysweepy Frets: 4159
    Congratulations to all of you, your lives will never be quite the same again. Give little Albert a cuddle from us all and here’s to the day when you are all home and settled into the eternal nappy change and feed cycle 
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  • Congratulations to you both Chris . Albert looks like a little cracker too. Be kind to yourselves and I look forward to seeing more photos of Alberts first Xmas soon (hopefully at home)


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  • droflufdrofluf Frets: 3615
    Congratulations! Sending positive vibes your way.

    And  extra kudos for being able to write such heartwarming, touching and witty posts at such a time!
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  • PhilW1PhilW1 Frets: 941
    Well!, You’ve got two babbies on your hands now cos I’m in tears here !
    What a story, so well written could have been Stephen King himself,I was scared to keep reading, dreading what was coming but what a wonderful ending.
    Congratulations and good luck too you all and have a great Xmas.

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  • SNAKEBITESNAKEBITE Frets: 1075

    Excellent news.

    Congratulations to all.

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  • Thanks Peeps. Tune in tonight for another instalment I guess! 

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  • rsvmarkrsvmark Frets: 1374
    Congratulations 
    An official Foo liked guitarist since 2024
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  • Just read the whole thing whilst having my morning cuppa, a real moving read. Congrats and hope they're home with you in the very near future.
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  • RickydRickyd Frets: 149
    Christ, I so wanted this to have a happy ending and its heading that way. Congratulations to you both and I hope you get your little lad home for his first Christmas.
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  • breakstuffbreakstuff Frets: 10230

    Congratulations mate. He's gorgeous 

    Please send my best wishes to Mrs R.


    Laugh, love, live, learn. 
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  • boogiemanboogieman Frets: 12314
    Congratulations to you both and welcome to the madhouse little Albert. What a great story to tell at his wedding ;) .  

    Must admit I’d never heard of a Skaboo before.
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  • Congratulations on a job well done, under pretty damn difficult circumstances!

    Also, that was excellently-written. Best to get all of that creative stuff out of your system now, mind, it's about to get really busy ;)
    <space for hire>
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