On the eve of your first birthday, finally, a birth story

There is no denying Angus’ pregnancy was long, gruelling, terrifying and exhausting. I wanted nothing more than for it to be over, and him to be safely in my arms each and every day. I tried to speed up the passage of time any way I could – and each and every day that was to no avail. We were crawling and limping along and I struggled to have any hope that he’d make it. Or that I’d survive the stress of it all.

As the pregnancy drew to a close, I began to feel some familiar niggles. On Saturday 14 November as Simon and I were sitting on the couch eating dinner, I felt a few twinges but went to bed. I ended up calling the hospital, which as always ended in tears when they told me to “relax and call back if I was really worried”. I then dropped my sad story on them, which lead to them telling me to come straight in. But even I knew these weren't the twinges to rush in for, so I stayed home tried to sleep. Come morning though, worry did get the better of me so we went in to the labour ward for a quick check. I didn't feel any other pains, niggles or twinges, let alone a contraction while I was there, so I was sent home and for the most part, I was comfortable with this. I knew I had an appointment first thing the next morning. I just had to trust he was ok and what happened to Hope wasn't happening to him all over again. This was a different baby. A different pregnancy and a very different set of circumstances.

Monday 16 November 2009 would however prove to be the pivotal day of my pregnancy with Angus. As we had done every Monday for weeks prior, Simon and I headed to hospital for a round of fetal monitoring and an ultrasound to check fluid levels before our appointment with the obstetrician later in the morning.

Fetal monitoring, as always, wasn't fun. Midwives not putting the sensor on properly, not finding the heartbeat right away, losing the heartbeat periodically throughout the trace and baby’s heart rate sometimes racing, sometimes slowing right down and always worrying me. But once again, we got another healthy trace and reassurance that all was well with our little man - at least in that moment in time.

The final ultrasound also revealed my fluid levels were good. In fact very good. Plenty of fluid with a very healthy looking baby squirming around in there. This was a huge relief, because when they told me Hope was dead, they said I had no fluid left so losing fluid had been a huge fear of mine, as I'd never noticed it leaking with her. The midwife said to me “hopefully baby will be with you soon” and I almost snapped back at her “hopefully tomorrow!” Tuesday 17 November would have me at bang on 38 weeks and that had become my absolute cut off date in my mind. Physically I could have gone another few weeks if needed, as sore and uncomfortable as I was, but mentally I was spent. Done. Finished. If I couldn't be induced on that day, I wanted him out any other way he could come out.

Next stop was the waiting room to see the obstetrician. Possibly my least favourite place in the entire bloody hospital.

As always, we had a long wait. I was fidgety and restless – more so than normal. I was up and down to the toilet. I was forever poking at my baby, making sure he was still moving in there. Memories of sitting in that same waiting room 15 months prior, poking at a baby who I could not rouse were fresh on my mind.

We were called to our appointment by the student doctor who we had come to know and love over the weeks of our pregnancy. He did what was needed – blood pressure and fundal height check, then my obstetrician checked to see if our boy was ready and if my body was ready, too.

She performed the internal exam and it was quick. Very quick. She told me to get dressed and we’d have a talk. I knew what was coming. I already felt defeated.

Angus’ head was still very high and not engaged at all and I was not yet dilated, not even a centimetre. This was most certainly a baby who was in no way ready to be born. My obstetrician was as keen for a natural birth as I was, but as we’d discussed the in the weeks leading up to this day, she refused to induce me with things the way they were – a body and baby that just weren't ready. For her, with my history, the risks were too high and the last thing she wanted was for me to end up with an emergency c-section, and despite the fact I had become completely irrational, I knew she was right. An emergency c-section was probably my worst fear, aside from the baby dying. However I wasn't just irrational, I was now hysterical. She knew how much I wanted him out, and how quickly I wanted it to happen, so it felt like we had hit a brick wall. While she said my desperation to avoid a c-section was refreshing, as she was often trying to talk women out of unnecessary c-sections, she said it looked like that’s where I was heading, and was happy to book one for the following morning.

I could have, if I’d wanted to, waited another week, or waited as long as it took (which was not really an option for anyone concerned), with twice weekly monitoring in the mean time but the caesarean was looking like our only choice. The only catch being, she would not be able to do it as she was tied up elsewhere, but another consultant obstetrician who I had met previously would be available.

I was a mess and totally gave up on making any decisions whatsoever – as far as this pregnancy was concerned, I was done. I slumped back in my chair and my arms dropped at my side. She gave us a moment to have a chat and a think about things and I looked to Simon, who also had tears in his eyes, and said “what do we do?”

Simon was pretty certain and very clinical – he said to have the caesarean. He knew I was a wreck and that I couldn't hold on a week or any longer living with the crippling fear of the baby just dying again. Just like that. Just like Hope did. He had seen enough of me crying and struggling to get through each second. Because that’s what pregnancy after loss is. You survive moment to moment. Not just day to day, hour to hour, every second is like a marathon. And my race was run.

So we called the obstetrician back in and told her we’d go ahead with the surgery. Things moved quickly. Phone calls were made, paperwork was filled out. We met the registrar obstetrician who would be helping with the operation and we talked about exactly what would happen. I was given some brochures. I also told her I had some ground rules – and that was that the baby was to stay by my side the entire time after he was born, if all was well and he didn't need any help. I know normally at that hospital, Dad and baby go back up to the room while the mum waits it out in recovery – but I was having none of that and the foot came firmly down. I wanted to do skin to skin as soon as I could and I wanted to get breastfeeding as quickly as I could. They said they would allow this for me. I also said that I wanted a double room so Simon could stay with us, as normally after a c-section, the mum has to stay in a single room as she has a tougher recovery so for some stupid reason, they think the dads are better off at home. The ob made a call, and she said it wouldn't be a problem – they were putting aside a special room for us and Simon could stay on mattress on the floor. I thought after all we’d been through with this hospital, this was the least they could do for us.

As soon as the decision was made to have the operation, despite the mild sense of disappointment, a true sense of calm came over me. It didn't seem to matter anymore, he was coming and he was coming soon. Still, I worried that I had to keep him alive for at least another 20 hours or so. I would have let them cut me open then and there if they’d offered it.

I know many probably wouldn't understand our decision to take the c-section at that stage of the pregnancy, when all looked well and normal. But I know most people haven’t been where I am, and only those who have could ever possibly understand. I don't regret our decision nor do I bother trying to second guess myself, even with the benefit of hindsight. We did the best we could in the difficult situation we were in at the time. And we got the ultimate reward.

Simon and I made our way home and made a few phone calls. Just to our immediate family and a few very close friends. We didn't want everyone knowing what the game plan was. I know how anxious everyone was for us and honestly I couldn't handle it. We were anxious enough ourselves. Most knew we were still a few weeks off a due date and while I had told people we wouldn't go to 40 weeks again, I still don’t think many were expecting he’d be born at this stage.

We also called Narelle, our midwife when Hope was born who I thankfully kept in touch with and forged a friendship with. Narelle then called the labour ward and operating rooms to let them know I was coming in and to make sure everyone had their happy faces on and to roll out the red carpet. There weren't many in the hospital who didn't know our story. We’d seen and spoken to a lot of people over the previous few years and I guess word gets around. I know stillbirth is tragically all too common, but our story was particularly gut-wrenching and most, if not everyone, had heard about us. Narelle, who had arranged to have the day off, told me she’d come in as soon as she’d done the school drop off in the morning so she could be there with me in recovery to help with the breastfeeding. She said the reason most women are not allowed to have their babies in recovery as midwives don’t work in there – only nurses – so they can’t help with getting the baby to latch on. She said she’d be honoured to do this for us, and for our baby. I’m not sure I ever believed it would happen.

Simon and I then did the last few bits and pieces we had to do. We took the car to get cleaned so the baby would be travelling home in style, if he in fact made it out alive. A few friends called to check how our appointment was, hoping we’d tell them what the plan was, if there was one, but we just lied and said we were holding on a bit longer and we’d let them know when there was news.

The registrar obstetrician called us that afternoon to say all the arrangements had been made for the surgery. She explained it was looking like it was going to be a very busy day and there wasn't exactly a theatre for us, so we had been placed on the emergency list. She said provided there were no other emergencies, we’d get done first thing in the morning. But, she also warned us we might have to wait. I was just hoping that wait didn't extend over night as now that I knew he was coming, I didn't think I could hold on a second longer. She told us to be at the hospital by 7am and with any luck, the baby would be born within a few hours of arriving.

It was a hot, balmy day. I was so exhausted I didn't know what to do with myself. I paced. Simon cooked me dinner, which felt like the last supper, and I had a lie down on the couch. The dog came and snuggled in with me and this time, he sat with his head on my bump, almost as if he knew something was up. In my two full term pregnancies, he'd never really done that before.

We took a few last photos of my big, bulging belly and we went to bed and tried to get some sleep. Tried being the operative word. This was a much different feeling to the last time we had gone to bed knowing we were going to have a baby the next day. I of course kept the Doppler close by my side, and I still used it several times that night. I wasn't about to let my guard down at this late stage of the game. Not even for a second.

I awoke the next morning not feeling particularly refreshed or relaxed and I was damn hungry. Because I was having the operation, I wasn't allowed to eat or drink and I was so thirsty. I took a shower and did my hair. I even put make up on – I knew I wouldn't really be working up a sweat and I knew there would be a lot of photos taken that day, so why the hell not! When I was getting ready, Simon played Angus’ song, Here Comes Your Man by The Pixies. Finally, I let myself get a little bit excited.

We drove the familiar route to the hospital. Because it was early, the roads were quiet so the trip was quicker than usual. Even though his birth was now just hours away, I still couldn't shake my fear and used my Doppler in the car sitting at traffic lights. Simon looked at me like I was a bit nuts, but I was just doing what I had to do. I’m sure the people in the cars next to me thought I was nuts as well.

We arrived at the hospital and checked in. It felt surreal but thankfully quite different to how it felt with Hope. With Hope, the woman processing our paperwork when we arrived knew. This time, the woman didn't know anything about us, but I guess she just assumed, as it is safe to do, that we were there to have a baby. A live one. So she was happy and brimming with excitement for us. I felt a little bit like I could have slapped her. I was in no mood for excitement. Yet.

We were seen by a midwife who then went through more paperwork and took my blood pressure. She kept telling me I was having an elective caesarean but that didn't sit well with me. She saw on our paperwork that we had lost our first baby, so she said it was no wonder we had chosen this method to birth. I said I hadn't really chosen it at all, but that Angus was very big, he didn't want to budge and I really couldn't hold on any longer. I don’t think there was really another decision we could have made. Elective is just a bad word for the situation.

We were taken around to a room where there was a TV and a seat for Simon – it was pretty cosy really. The news was saturated with the story of the Bangladeshi conjoined twins Trishna and Krishna who were having the separation surgery that day. I wondered – what would happen first – would Angus be born or would they be separated? Selfishly, I hoped Angus would come first, with no disrespect to the twins and their struggle.

The nurse seeing to us was lovely. She gave me a gown and put my hospital tags on. She also had the tags ready for the baby when he was born. It was strange to see all of these things being readied for a baby who everyone assumed was going to arrive alive and well. I couldn't get over their confidence and trust in it all. I guess they see life as a result of pregnancy all the time. I had only ever known death.

A consultant anaesthetist then came in to see us. He was old, like really old. But super experienced. With Simon being an anaesthetic nurse at the hospital right next door, he’d put in a call to his work the day before to make sure there was a big name anaesthetist on duty that day, and a few strings were pulled, and sure enough we got the best of the best. I just remember his smell – old man aftershave, like my grandfather smelt, and his hands – they were huge, but reassuring. If anyone was going to be numbing the lower half of my body for a few hours, I wanted it to be this guy. He wore glasses, and looked over them as he talked to me. He put his hand on mine and spoke as if all was going to be well, and for the first time in a long time, I believed him. He spoke of my baby as my son, and said I’d soon have a new man in my life. Even though I knew Angus was a boy from very early on, I hadn't stopped to consider very often that I’d have a son.

Another midwife came in – she was dressed in scrubs and she told us she’d be in the operation with us. She asked if we had an outfit picked out for our baby to wear as he’d be dressed soon after he was born to keep warm. I was caught off guard, as this was not something we’d considered. Because I knew, all being well, that Angus would be kept by my side the whole time after the birth, I didn't think I’d have to dress him if we were doing skin to skin. I guess this nurse didn't know that, and she wanted to get the clothes as that is obviously part of procedure. I hastily pulled out a blue singlet, white Bonds Wondersuit, a blue wrap and a hat from my dear friend Sarah. It wasn't the cutest or most special outfit we had (apart from the hat) but to me it didn't really matter. Clothes are just clothes. It was the baby who mattered. And after all, we had the same outfit ready for Hope to wear – a yellow singlet and aqua Bonds Wondersuit and that was the outfit she ended up being buried in.

I got changed in to my gown and laid down on the bed. Narelle called to see how I was doing, but I didn't really have time to talk as the theatre tech came to get me to take me to the surgery. Everything happened a lot faster than we thought and I have no words for how surreal that feeling was. I was on a trolley and the hospital walls were whizzing past me. There was no hurry though of course, this wasn't an emergency in the true sense of the word, even though it felt like one to me. Everyone was being incredibly nice to me though. There was such a sense of occasion, and I know everyone understood just how huge this moment was for Simon and I. People talk of journeys, and this had certainly been one intense journey.

On the way to surgery, we went past all of the birthing suites, and I hadn't been in that hallway since Hope was born. It hit me like a tonne of bricks that here I was again, just 15 short months later, to do this all again, just in a very different way and hoping like mad for a very different outcome. For the time being though, the overwhelming feeling of grief had to be shelved while I focussed on keeping Angus alive just a bit longer.

I got to a small room outside theatre where the anaesthetist and his nurse came to put the drip in arm. As they were finishing, a group of staff members milled around me and appeared to be whispering. Finally a nurse told me that my surgery had been bumped, just as I was about to be wheeled in. An emergency case was coming through and I would have to wait – just as they’d warned me. I was disappointed, but calmer than I thought I’d be. I asked what the emergency case was (already thinking in my head this woman better have a damn good story) and I was told it was a woman in early labour at 28 weeks. With twins. I was happy to let her through!

So back down the hallway I went. Back past the birthing suites. And back in to my little waiting room. And wait I did.

At that moment, fear set in again. I began to think it would be just my luck that the baby would up and die on me in the small window of time waiting for my surgery. I thought how cruel it would be if he died right at the time he would have been taken out, if not for that other woman and the twins. Though her situation was a true emergency, I thought if my baby died in that time, how robbed and crushed I would feel. Her babies lives certainly weren't any more precious or important than the life of my own baby, but to me, in that intense situation, he was obviously a lot more important and I would have chosen his life and safety above all others.

I buzzed for the midwife. And I asked to be hooked up to the fetal heart monitor. A midwife came in that I hadn’t yet met and she looked at me like I was crazy, knowing my baby was fine and soon to be born. Then the other midwife came in, who I'd already met, and she understood why I was asking for it, and rushed off to get it for me. If I had to wait, I wanted to listen to his heartbeat while I did. It was comforting and also strange knowing that I'd never be able to listen to it while he was inside of me again. I'd listened to it so many times throughout the last 25 or so weeks of the pregnancy.

It wasn’t long after that the tech came back in and said we were back on. The wait was much quicker than I thought, but by this stage I was pretty dubious I was ever going to get cut open or that Angus was ever going to be born. I was ready and waiting the whole time for them to wheel me back out again. Right at this moment, Narelle arrived and she gave me a hug and a kiss and told me she’d see me on the other side. She looked so excited for us. I wish I could have felt the way she looked. I wish I could have been like one of those "normal" mothers giving birth.

Because my drip was already in, they took me straight in to theatre. I had to say goodbye to Simon while he went off to get his scrubs and cap on. I guess for many dads this is a bit of a novelty, but not for Simon given that’s what he wears to work every day!

As I was being wheeled in to the room, it occurred to me to ask after the other mother – the one who I got bumped for. I wanted to know if she and her babies were ok, and I was assured they were. I was relieved, but it also occurred to me they could have been lying – not wanting to scare me or to rain on my happy parade. I guess that is what babyloss can do to you – make you more pessimistic than you otherwise might have been. So I just hoped they were telling the truth and felt relieved for that mother, even though I’m sure she had a tough time with her little babies after the were born.

I remember the operating room was very bright. And cold. Freezing, in fact. It was also bigger than I thought, with windows and a nice view. I also noticed all of the equipment and gadgets ready for the baby. It seemed impossible to me that any of them would be necessary. The room I gave birth to Hope in had all the same things, but none of them were needed. She didn't require a single thing after she was born. She was handed to me wrapped in a towel, and that was that. There were also so many people in the room and they all looked busy – and they were busy as they were getting ready for me and my baby boy. I couldn't figure out how each and every one of them had a specific job to do. Simon later filled me in who they all would have been and what they were all doing. I felt pretty special that all of these people were here for me and my baby and our well-being.

An incredibly kind and warm theatre tech then greeted me and began to get me ready for the anaesthetist. When you’re giving birth, it is certainly the case that you check your dignity in when you arrive and if you’re lucky, you get to pick it up again on the way out. He was on older, rounder and jolly sort of a guy. He apologised, but said it was time to give me a shave down. I didn't really care, but in the weeks that would follow I did grow sick of feeling so itchy!

I sat on the edge of the bed and the combined spinal block/epidural was put in. The theatre tech was holding my hand and helping me stay still and hunched over. I was shaking, through fear and simply being cold, but he made me feel so reassured and safe. When it was all done, he helped me lay back down. I remember wondering at this point if anyone could do an internal examination again. I thought maybe I had dilated overnight and that Angus had dropped down in to place and that they could wheel me back out to the birthing suites and I could try and push him out. But, by this stage, I was at the point of no return, and knowing that he was going to be born within minutes really did sound pretty appealing. The dream of birthing him vaginally, as I had done with his sister, was well and truly gone at this point, but in the end it absolutely didn't matter. Not one little bit.

Things then moved quickly, and I wondered where Simon was. I got worried, and kept asking for him. Everyone assured me he wasn’t far away, but at that point I was convinced our baby was going to be born without him. I was a bit scattered. Confused.

Everything is pretty hazy from this time, but I know as soon as I was lying down, and the “ice test” had been done to check I was suitably numb, the curtain went up on my chest so I couldn’t see what was going on behind it. I felt like the lower half of my body, basically from the chest down, was a million miles away – on another planet even. And this was the part of my body that was housing my precious baby. Now that I could no longer feel that entire region, it all felt so separate from me and I worried that if I couldn't feel him, how on earth would I know he was ok. I thought again I could do with the heart monitor, even if it just meant for a couple of minutes or so. Then I remember looking up and seeing the obstetrician who was going to be performing the operation walk in to the room. She pulled her gloves on and asked for a scalpel – almost as it happens on TV. Simon was then all of a sudden right by my side. I think this is when I started to cry. Simon held my hand, and I think he cried as well.

I had been warmed about the pulling and the tugging sensations I would feel as they were shifting my internal organs out of the way and getting ready to deliver the baby. And I started to feel them. And it was awful. I hated every second of it. I kept looking to Simon and asking if all was ok as I was so worried. I didn't feel pain, but it didn’t feel right. Simon and all of the staff kept assuring me everything was perfectly fine and normal. Fine and normal were just the words I needed, but I wasn't sure I believed them. I thought to myself anyone who books a c-section thinking this is the easy way out has to be totally kidding themselves. Nothing about that part of it was pleasant for me. I know some probably say the same about natural birth, but that is just how I felt.

I had been told to keep an ear out for a “coffee machine” type of sound, as this meant they were suctioning the fluid and that the baby wasn’t far away. I kept listening out for that sound, and it felt like an eternity before I heard it. I wondered if I ever would. Even at the 11^th hour, I was never sure this baby was going to make it.

But then before I had time to blink, there it was – that sound. And then moments later, there was his cry – a mighty roar. It was 10.46am. He was born. He most certainly was not still. I remember someone saying “oh he’s a big one Sally” then he was dangled over the curtain by one leg and I touched his beautiful wet, bloody head before he was taken away to be checked over by a paediatrician. He was screaming almost the whole time and I didn’t care if he never stopped. I told Simon to rush over and be with him. Immense relief swept over me. I had practically been holding my breath for 15 months. Now I could breathe again as Angus began to take his first breaths here on earth.

During the whole birth process, the lovely anaesthetist had been holding and stroking my head and telling me what a great job I had done. He’d made me feel like I was the only woman on earth to have ever given birth and that my baby was the most special one he’d ever delivered. It was such a beautiful experience and despite it not being how I thought things would go for the nine months that preceded it, I really couldn’t have asked for a better birth, especially when the outcome was life.

As they were cleaning Angus off, I kept yelling out and asking Simon if he was ok. I can hear myself repeating it now, with a quavering voice “is he ok, is he ok?” Simon kept looking over and grinning like I have never seen him grin and giving me the thumbs up.

Then my darling little Angus, bundled up in a white towel with only his chubby little face revealed, was placed on my chest and we had our first cuddle. I just kept kissing his head and I’m not sure I stopped crying. I think I said hello over and over again. He was so close to my face so it was hard to focus on him but I couldn’t believe how beautiful he was. I didn’t really think he looked like Hope. He was most certainly his own little person and just as I had wished, everything about this moment was so very different.

I think it was the surgeon who first asked what his name was. Simon and I had been talking names all morning, and nothing was really locked in. It was Simon who had picked the name Angus weeks earlier and I agreed to it, but at the last minute, he went off it. But to me, as soon as I saw him, he looked like an Angus. Angus is such a bold, strong name and this was certainly one bold and strong little boy. So I said, shrugging my shoulders, looking to Simon “Angus? Angus Leo?” and he quickly agreed. Who was he to argue with me? I had just given birth to his son and my insides were still sitting on the table beside me.

After a certain amount of time – it could have been a minute, five or 20 – I really don’t know as I was so lost in the moment, I gave Angus back over and he was weighed and dressed. Just as we had been told and as the obstetrician had said – he was big – 8 pounds 11 in the old scale, or almost four kilograms. He was 51cm long. However I really don’t think they knew I was going to keep Angus in recovery, so I still don’t think dressing him was necessary but at this point I was in no frame of mind to argue with anyone or even ask questions. I just knew he was alive and ok. Whether he was dressed or not seemed totally inconsequential.

After he was dressed and wrapped up in the clothes we’d picked for him, he was again given to me to cuddle. I think I held him a lot longer this time and began to marvel as he opened his eyes for the first time. I had dreamt of this moment for months on end and it was certainly more special than I ever could have imagined or hoped for. I suddenly felt a real sense of kinship with all the other women out there who had lost babies and gone on to have a live one afterwards. I could never imagine what that profound sense of overwhelming joy felt like. Now I absolutely knew - because I was living it and enjoying every second of it. I was now finally part of a club that I so desperately wanted to belong to. I was a mother, with a real live baby to look after.

When I was finished being stitched up, I was taken in to recovery and Simon and Angus followed closely behind me. I got to my little cubicle first and wondered where they were, but Simon was busy making the first phone calls to our family to tell them the news – he was here! And he was fine!

I remember looking across at a woman in a cubicle opposite me, and she looked a bit lost. She was on her own, had obviously just given birth, but she didn’t have her baby or partner by her side. I sensed she may have felt jealous of me and wondered why I had been given the rock star treatment, but then I guess she didn’t know my story and everything that had happened to me that had lead to that moment in time. It was most probably the mother who had gone in to surgery before me, so I was hoping if it was, her little twins were ok. She smiled at me as the curtain was pulled closed and I smiled back.

I remember seeing Narelle then and she was absolutely beaming for us. She asked questions about how everything went but I just wanted to get my hands on my baby again.

I guess the drugs had done a bit of a number on me by this point, and I was pretty out of it, not to mention the cocktail of happy hormones that were surging through me, but I know this is when I offered Angus his first feed. From the get go, Narelle called him the “piranha” – he was pretty keen to get going and had a pretty strong suck. I was relieved as I was so worried I had done the wrong thing taking him out so early and that he wouldn’t be ready to attach. As I was giving Angus his first feed, I also reached for my mobile phone! I sort of look back on this moment and cringe, and even Narelle said “put your phone down and enjoy your baby” but I was just so damn happy and proud that I wanted to get the news out there – so, just like I did when Hope was born, I sent out a text to pretty much everyone I knew. And given no one really knew he was being born that day, most were pretty surprised but incredibly happy and relieved for us. Once that was done, I got back to enjoying my brand new son Angus.

I had asked before the surgery, during the surgery and after the surgery to see my placenta. I know my placenta with Hope didn’t look good. It had obviously shut down and the infection had taken over and I remember when I saw it, it didn’t look as it should have. I really wanted to see Angus’, as I was in awe of this wonderful organ and all it had done to keep my baby alive. No one seemed to know where it was at this point, which was a little bit comical, and I don’t think many took me seriously that I actually wanted to see it. Eventually Narelle found it and showed it to me. She just sort of whizzed it past my face quickly, but I was just glad to have seen it. I wasn’t really one for eating or burying it though. I was happy to give it up once I’d had a quick look!

When my time in recovery was up, we made our way in the lift up to our room. In the hallways on the way, we passed a few people we had seen in the morning and they were all so happy for us. Simon was pushing Angus and I may as well have been floating on a cloud. The last time we’d been transported from a delivery ward to a room, I was in wheelchair shielding my face, and Simon was pushing Hope with a sheet draped over her. Again, everything was so different. Absolutely different.

We had a good hour or so in the room to ourselves. A midwife came in and out to check on us. I know we didn’t put Angus down – not once. And an hour or so later, our entire family arrived to say hello and meet the little boy who had filled our imaginations with such wonder. He was so highly anticipated and we’d all waited such a long time to meet him.

I really can’t say much more about that day, or the next one, as I don’t really remember them. I’m a bit sad about that, but that’s just the way it is. I was on some pretty serious painkillers and it had been such a long road to get to that point. I was tired and emotional beyond measure.

Some very dear friends also came in that night. Everyone had a cuddle. Everyone took pictures. I had my boobs out nearly the entire time, but I really couldn’t care less – and neither could anyone else. The happiness everyone had for us was palpable.

Eventually, when visiting hours were over, we were finally alone. The family of three we’d dreamed of becoming back in late 2007, when Hope first came in to our lives. Only we were a family of four. Just a very unconventional family of four.

I kept Angus tucked in to my side in the bed all night. He slept like a little champion (probably one of the only nights he ever has!) He fed on and off all throughout the night. Simon and I didn’t sleep a wink. We took pictures, we laughed and we took it in turns to hold him while the hospital bassinette sat unused in the corner of the room. We were in awe of our good fortune and luck and so in love with our little man who was already charming us to pieces with all of his adorable noises and faces. We felt like we’d won the lottery. While it all became even more obvious what we had missed out on with Hope, we simply marvelled in our little boy. This moment was his.

We did of course desperately miss the little girl who came before him, but when we awoke the next day, with Angus still fighting fit by our sides, we knew we were going to be ok. We did it. We made it. He made it. And we hoped liked crazy this would be the first day of the rest of our lives with him in it. If we had one wish for him at that point, it was for him to live longer than us. That is still our main wish for him today.