Open Writing

After considering all the options, last year my husband and I decided we would have our baby in Riyadh. Baby was due the day before Christmas and, despite a few worries with my high blood pressure, all went well – until the end of November.

We went to Kingdom Hospital – a modern private hospital with all the bells and whistles – for my 36 week check and met the paediatrician. My husband and I told him in no uncertain terms how we wanted to keep the baby in our room for the entire stay and informed him bottle feeding by nurses would not be tolerated. We left, satisfied our wishes would be adhered to. In retrospect, I think we jinxed things.

Leaving hubby in the main reception area I went to the ladies-only area to have my blood pressure and weight checked. The Filipino nurse looked bemused at the paper label spat out by the automatic blood pressure machine and tried it again.

With my husband by my side, my female Jordanian obstetrician, Dr D, took one look at that little bit of paper and told me I wasn’t going anywhere. Half an hour later I was upstairs in a private room - swallowing pills, strapped to a baby monitor and undergoing an ECG.

I was to stay there until my blood pressure was under control or the baby was delivered. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. None of this resembled my carefully considered plans at all.

The next morning I had an ultrasound to check the baby. Dr D’s bp must have risen higher than mine when she saw me walking and yelled at the innocent nurse. I hurriedly explained it was my fault – I just didn’t feel like an invalid and had turned the offer of a wheelchair down.

The ultrasound showed our little boy to be around three kilos and almost 37 weeks gestation. With treatment, my bp had initially subsided but was on the rise again. Dr D told me my condition could deteriorate rapidly and there was no alternative - she was “going in”.

With my husband working away on his laptop on the comfy sofa, I was cordoned off behind a curtain for the dreaded induction and connected up to the baby heart monitor.

The pains started almost immediately and increased in their intensity over the afternoon. “This must be it,” I informed my bored husband as he contemplated returning to the office for a few hours. One look from his elephant-sized wife quickly changed his mind.

“It’s not going to happen today, they’re not real contractions,” Dr D said as she scrutinised the machine printout. “Get a good sleep and we’ll try again in the morning.” This was upsetting – December 1 was my brother’s birthday and it would have been extra special to have my son born on that day.

Round two began the next day. “He will definitely be born today”, said Dr D as she flung her rubber gloves into the bin and hurried out the door. My husband wasn’t yet there but if he was, he would have looked doubtful.

I decided walking was my best option and wore a track down the hallway to the newborn nursery and back again. There were about eight Saudi babies, all boasting full heads of hair. Beyond the nursery I could see the baby ICU.

Various checks were done on me (not for the inhibited) and it was decided things were moving along well enough to be moved to labour and delivery. The pain was almost unbearable at this point and everything Dr D and her midwife assistant did only served to quadruple it. Still, I can’t yet have been in as much pain as my Saudi neighbour through the wall. Whenever my door was opened I could see her husband wearing out the corridor linoleum, the whites of his eyes growing bigger with every scream of “Assalam Alaaaaaaaaaiiiiiikum (peace be upon you).

Shortly afterwards, peace returned to us all, when she delivered a daughter.

Suddenly it was my turn. Without even having to ask – she must have seen the desperation in my eyes – Dr D handed me the gas mask. It didn’t exactly make me laugh but it helped me through the worst of it.

In a fuzzy blur, our son Faris (Knight) was born and placed in my arms. He lay there quietly, his perfect warm, pink body next to mine. My first thought was that he didn’t have much hair for a half-Iraqi baby. “He’s a blonde baby” were Dr D’s first words on seeing him.

Faris was quickly weighed and measured, his vitals taken and then he was returned to us.

About ten minutes after his birth I realised something was wrong when he started making grunting sounds. Dr D said he should go to the nursery where he will be carefully watched for a couple of hours and be returned to me later. I agreed, worried but comforted by Dr D’s confidence.

An hour after the birth I returned alone, to my room. My husband had gone to find our new baby and had not returned. I had not seen anyone and was worried.

Eventually, Dr D came to see how I was doing. Through my tears I managed to explain there was a problem. She was concerned about my blood pressure and promptly headed off to see what was wrong.

Ten minutes later she was back with the paediatrician – by chance the same one we had met two nights earlier. He pulled up a chair and explained Faris’s life was not in any danger but his left lung either had had an infection or fluid on it. He had received a shot of surfactant to mature his lungs and was now on antibiotics. The doctor said he would not have any adverse long-term effects and would probably be well enough to go home in a week.

I had to see Faris so got the all clear to travel by wheelchair. As the nurse wheeled me down the corridor I saw the sign at the end – normal nursery. It might as well have been in neon. We turned in the opposite direction towards the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

He was beside the window, a tiny wee baby on an open bed (an emergency bed for easy access) with a tube down his throat, needles and wires protruding from him and monitors beeping and squealing. His little chest sucked down deep between his ribs as the machine did most of the breathing for him. It was so sad to see him like that, looking so small and helpless. That night the nurses gave me a sedative and I slept a full twelve hours.

The following day Amer and I scrubbed up and donned masks and gowns. We talked to Faris and touched his little body. He just lay there, his chest sucking in and out and his heart rate fluctuating from 120bpm to 200bpm. The doctors had turned down the respirator so Faris was forced to breathe eighty percent on his own while the machine did the rest for him. Despite how he looked to be struggling, we were told he was making good progress. I stayed another night at the hospital to be near him.

On day two Faris was moved from the open emergency bed to an incubator which - despite appearances - was a good thing. I touched him through the portholes and talked to him, which he seemed to enjoy. The highlight of my day was when he stared straight into my eyes for about two minutes while calmly lying there.

Faris’s strong nature was already apparent, as his favourite pastime was grabbing hold of the tubes and wires attached to him and giving them a good yank. I was there when he almost pulled the intubation tube from his throat.

With all the unexpected costs we decided I should leave the hospital after two days. I had recovered enough to go home but it was the hardest thing I had ever done, driving away from the hospital and leaving my precious baby behind. I cried all the way and collapsed in a sodden heap once I got home.

However, we had the best surprise when we went back in the evening and saw the intubation and nasal tubes had been removed. Faris was breathing completely on his own, although not yet in perfect rhythm. His little face had red marks from the tape and he was covered in puncture wounds from the needles, but he was simply perfect.

I was not prepared for the shock of seeing Faris under the phototherapy lights in his incubator on the third day. He had a little mask over his eyes and was receiving treatment for jaundice. Two steps forward, one step back.

While I watched, he pulled off some of his chest electrodes and his ankle blood pressure cuff. He showed the beginnings of a little temper but the sounds of his cries were magic, now that the tubes were gone.

When I arrived on day four Faris was screaming and kicking his way up the incubator. He was still under the lights and had his little blindfold on. His jaundice was improving, however, so that was good news. The highlight of my day was actually getting to hold him for the first time since he was born and attempting our first breastfeed. It was not a great success, as he was becoming used to the bottle. He seemed content just being held.

The following day Faris was in a normal bed – no more jaundice. He seemed happy about this fact.

Day six saw Faris’s jaundice on the rise again which meant yet another needle to draw blood to check the accuracy of the first test. I should have left the room but instead became an unwilling witness to my baby’s suffering. While the nurse sought a lucrative vein, Faris screamed in pain. As soon as she left him alone he opened his eyes and looked at me. It was as if he was saying “you are my mother, you are meant to protect me”. His little hand kept bleeding and the nurse had to change his plaster three times.

As suspected, when we arrived that night he was again under the phototherapy lights.

Finally Faris was seven days old – the magic week. The doctors had taken him off phototherapy as his bilirubin levels had reached a normal level. He looked great and was ready to come home. I dreaded the thought of another needle being poked into him for a final bilirubin check.

At 9.30pm on Thursday, December 9, we took Faris home from the hospital. It was the most wonderful feeling to drive away from the hospital, finally together as a family. I liken the entire process to slowly unwrapping a special present, one careful layer at a time.