Right now I write this with my heart in pieces. You're in a hospital incubator, what feels like a million miles away, surrounded by wires and tubes while I’m home on the floor in your nursery surrounded by all the things we bought you and don’t know if you’ll ever use.
It really doesn’t get much worse than this. I can’t hold you, I can’t feed you, to touch you I have to put my arm through a hole and find somewhere on your body not covered in wires that I can stroke.
It’s been almost a week since you were born and I’ve never seen your eyes open. The doctors tell me you do open them sometimes at night but I’m not there to see it. I’m not by your side where I should be, where every mother of a newborn needs to be.
Most of the day, I sit by your incubator with my heart literally hurting for you. I hate that you suffered, that you’re suffering and going to suffer. I hate that you’ve had more trauma and medication in six days than I’ve had in a lifetime. I’m worried about a million things for you and all I want to do is hold you and I can’t.
You were born on Tuesday June 16 at 5.16pm. We were told the whole pregnancy that you were a healthy baby. We had lots of scans and tests and everything was fine. We were expecting none of this. A medical team have gone over your scans and even they are shocked. No one expected this.