INCREDIBLE JOURNEYS

hat are you still doing here, take your baby and go home,” says Dr Saulius Satas, motioning to the secure door exit.

“Shoo, shoo, I don’t want to see you in here again.”

He turns on his heels and strides down the ward, ready to see the next patient.

In just a few short hours, we have become used to his mock crossness and entertaining quips; we give a cheery wave before proudly wheeling the cot down the corridor.

It is March 10 2018 and my son has just spent two days in the neonatal unit at Aberdeen Maternity Hospital.

His brief visit is but a drop in the ocean in comparison to babies born prematurely who may spend several months on the ward.

Our son is a healthy weight, but needed resuscitating at birth.

The incredible team, led by consultant neonatologist Doctor Satas, sprang into action and stabilised our baby within minutes.

Were you to not know Dr Satas, you might believe his outburst to be rude.

He is in fact charmingly eccentric, and well liked on the unit by staff and families.

His sparkling humour, endless selection of jokes, and no-nonsense approach brings fun and laughter during a difficult time for new parents.

Fast forward two years and Dr Satas is now sitting opposite me, wearing his standard uniform of black chinos and a shirt.

“You saved my son’s life,” I tell him, feeling the lump form in my throat.

He smiles and shrugs off the accolade, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.

Around 900 babies pass through the unit every year, and Dr Satas is on call 24 hours a day.

The neonatal unit opened in 1988 following a fundraising campaign by what is now called Friends of the Neonatal Unit.

The passing years have seen huge advancements in technology, changes in techniques, further research and developments in medicine.

Babies born at 23 weeks are now not only surviving but flourishing, thanks to the work of the neonatal unit and the charity that supports it.

Over the steady march of time, there has remained one constant – the enormous appreciation of families.

Thank-you cards adorn notice boards, and photographs of former patients who are now cheeky toddlers have been framed on the wall.

It is quiet time when I arrive on the ward, a magical two hours of muffled silence.

Between 1pm and 3pm, noise is kept to a minimum – which is an achievement in a hospital environment.

The blinds are drawn on each ward and the lights are dimmed in a bid to help the

Photographs by Paul Glendell Hayley Forsyth and her nineweek-old daughter Rosie.