A stroll down memory lane.

Sometimes the joy of giving birth is marred by the news that your baby is ill. I remember a miracle that we received following the birth of our third baby and first son. It had been a normal pregnancy that had taken me through the hot Canadian months of July and August with our son finally announcing his presence in early September of ’85.

The labour had been the normal 8 - 12 hours of pain and misery that we get through with the hope and wonder that you will soon actually get to meet the little person who has been playing football for the past months with your bladder. Finally after many false attempts Jonathan crowned and was born. Although my third – he was at that point my smallest baby. Our second baby, a daughter, had weighed in at 9 lbs so this little fellow was almost a full 3 lbs less – a significant difference on the newborn scale.

The first few hours after his birth, so many years later, are now blurred for me but I do remember the first time that I changed his tiny little hospital gown and disposable diaper. His little arms seemed so fragile in comparison to dressing 9 lb baby, never mind my more recent experience with a chubby little 18 month old and a very self sufficient 3 year old. I gently folded his arm back, afraid I would hurt him as I fitted his fresh gown on him. I laughed at myself, imagining that anyone seeing me would think I was a first time mother, and not the mother of three.

I then settled down to feed him, but he was not as vigorous in his nursing as the first two babies had been. Despite my experience we were not falling into a good rhythm. All too soon I learned why when a sergeant major, disguised as a nurse, appeared at the door and gathered my son up and announced; “Your baby has jaundice and needs to be under the lights.” She efficiently wrapped him in his blanket and whisked him out the door in her arms. Shortly after my pediatrician appeared and assured me that all was fine and just a few hours under the lights would right everything, but in the mean time our nursing time was to be strictly regulated to 15 minutes every three hours. Not a great recipe for successful nursing and certainly not a regime I was happy to follow. I felt as though I was only getting to borrow my son for those few precious moments during which he suckled only half heartedly while a nurse would fuss over him with a cold cloth trying to wake him enough to eat. Then off he would be whisked again to settle under his lights like a Floridian bathing under the hot sun, with gauze pads for sunglasses. I was not even allowed to sit beside him in the nursery as I would be in the way. If only I could have just been able to sit there and watch him – it would have been so much easier. Instead I sat with my arms empty; hungrily waiting for my chance to hold my delicate little son, who was growing more yellow each day. It did not help to be the only one in my ward who did not get her baby each time the train of bassinettes passed by. My husband was busy with the two older children at home and unable to visit, but called often to see how his first son was doing. My progress report was never filled with progress.

My pediatrician was very dedicated and stopped by often to reassure me, but not even he could convince the nurses to break their strict rules about access to babies in their nursery. Eventually Jonathan’s bilirubin level leveled off and while it had not yet started to retreat – I was able to convince Dr. Simo to release Jonathan with the promise I would return to the lab in 24 hours for a blood draw to ensure his level had not begun to increase again. Anxious the doctor might change his mind, I called Hugo and urged him to hurry and pick us up.

Once home we settled in a happy routine of being a family of five and the girls happily dragged toys out to show their baby brother while I tried hard to keep him awake long enough to nurse. I tried all the tricks the nurses had shown me but little seemed to work. I tried not to worry too much, but worry I did. And rightly so – as time would tell.

To be continued...