‘does my baby even know i’m her mum?’
Just two weeks ago, Sarah Hesz, founder of mums’ social app Mush, gave birth 11 weeks early. Here, she reveals the heartbreaking reality of a life in limbo
i am currently living a double life. Two weeks ago, I gave birth, but I don’t have my baby. Instead, she is looked after by others; amazing nurses, doctors, but not me. I’m a mere spectator.
Rather than the cooing of family and friends, her soundtrack is the electronic bleeps and whirrs of machines. Instead of floppy cuddles and those gorgeous newborn snuggles, she is more familiar with latex gloves and tiny needles.
The weirdest thing is that I wake up in my bed every morning and almost forget that I’ve had a baby (stab of guilt one) – before I clock the big yellow breast pump on my bedside table, which I dutifully and a little resentfully hook myself up to (stab of guilt two). Then I’m trying to call the hospital while also attempting, distractedly, to corral my daughter to put her unread reading book in her bag (stab of guilt three).
After my four-year- old girl and threeyear- old boy are sorted, I’m in the car to the hospital to visit Noa and my other life. Noa arrived when I had just hit the 29-week mark of my pregnancy; almost three months early. That would have sounded mad to me a few days ago, but now I know how incredible both babies and modern medicine are. Noa is truly wonderful, surprising the doctors with her strength and progress, but she is not yet my baby in my care, and that’s something that takes time to come to terms with.
Once I get to the hospital, I take the well trodden route. Past the downstairs antenatal clinics where pregnant couples wait for scans, up the stairs where I arrived just days ago, wondering if the leaking really was my waters breaking.
Noa’s arrival feels surreal; I remember a few key moments over about 48 hours. Being ushered into a room with a very hightech looking cot in the corner – surely they didn’t expect the baby to arrive this early? Then being taken to see the neonatal unit by a lady with a soft voice, and shakily rushing out because I didn’t want to confront what was probably ahead. After a lot of pacing and panting there was suddenly a crowd of people running into the room – quite a lot of them shouting at me to ‘PUSH HARDER’ – and a slippery warm creature was put briefly on my tummy before being whisked into a sticky plastic bag and wheeled off on that cot I’d clocked before. Then an empty room and my red- eyed husband coming back to say we had a tiny but perfect daughter and that we probably should figure out what to call her.
And now every morning I head straight to the NICU ( Neonatal Intensive Care Unit), breathing deeply to make the panic subside. If you’ve spent time in a neonatal unit you’ll know the unique brand of extraordinary people who work there. Doctors who congratulate you because your baby has managed to breathe by herself, nurses who will high-five you for a nappy that is the right shade of green, and support staff who will laugh at your hands- free- expressing-bra, because, well, it’s clearly laughable.
For the first days ( or maybe hours, hospitals have their own time zone), I was afraid to look at Noa too closely; it felt so wrong to see her so exposed when she should have been cocooned in my tummy and she looked so frail that it seemed impossible that her chest would continue to rise and fall so perfectly. I spent time counting the wires all over her, monitoring the numbers on the screen and staring out of the window. I first held her after almost two days and noticed her ankle was the same width as my thumb. Because Noa is my third, I know it’s not unusual to be so anxious with a new baby that you are a little afraid of them, but I am scared she has no idea that I am her mum.
The lowest point of the experience so far has been leaving the hospital for the first time without a baby. I was discharged after two nights in the postnatal ward,
knowing that Noa wasn’t likely to join me at home for another seven weeks.
It’s impossible to pretend to yourself, particularly while pumped full of hormones, that there is anything normal about it. To acknowledge that you are utterly inadequate to look after a baby that you’ve been growing inside you for months is gut- wrenching. I totally lost it on our way out of the hospital when a new dad bounded up the stairs towards us with a brand new empty car seat, ready to cocoon a brand new life.
The story of Noa’s early arrival is one with lots of questions and no answers yet. I’ve had two completely normal full-term babies previously. In my sane moments, I refuse to believe that it’s my fault but, during the 2am breast-pumping session, I wonder if I should have been so stressed out at work, whether I should have been more diligent about taking antenatal vitamins, or whether this is some sort of comeuppance for showing off about my easy labour last time around.
In my work life, as co-founder of Mush (a free social app to connect local mums so no one has to feel as overwhelmed and lonely as I did after having my first babies), I spend so much time talking about maternal support, mental health and community. My co-founder Katie and I set it up after we were both in a rainy playground with four under four between us and I, without much preamble, asked her to be my friend. We hear every day from our community about friendships that have been a lifeline, and nowhere has this been more apparent than in the microcosm of the neonatal ward. The other mums there are heroes – we share the tiny milestones, celebrate the wins and tell each other that it will be OK when it doesn’t feel like it’s OK.
I’m beginning to let myself tentatively look forward to the day we finally get to bring Noa home. It will be incredible and she will finally be part of our family. It will also be completely terrifying. Watching the team of people who look after her now and wondering whether I’m up to the task is a daily obsession. One thing that is very clear to me is that I won’t do well alone; I will need my gang of mum friends to tell me I’m doing OK and to ply me with sugar and caffeine when I’m not. So thank you to my amazing mum friends, thank you to the extraordinary doctors and nurses at Kingston Hospital and also to my husband, who isn’t that bad either. Above all, an optimistic thank you to Noa for reading this in a decade’s time and wondering what I was so stressed out about.
i first held her after two days – her ankle was the width of my thumb