Share what you know about the year you were born.
Last night, I had a strange and vivid dream. It was about the time I was born—a time when neonatal medicine was still finding its footing and the world of healthcare was vastly different from what it is today. The dream brought together fragments of my story, my mum’s experience, and my passion for advocating for families navigating premature births. It was a surreal blend of memory, emotion, and reflection.
As I think back, it feels like a journey through time, showing how far we’ve come—and how some things, sadly, haven’t changed.
A Difficult Beginning: My Mum’s Experience
In 1981, I was born at 28 weeks, a time when neonatal care was far less advanced than it is today. My mum, pregnant with me and my twin brother Nicholas, knew something wasn’t right when she went into hospital. She was in labour, but the medical staff dismissed her concerns.
“Mrs. Williams, you’re not in labour. It’s just indigestion,” they said, patronising her in the way women have been too often treated in medical settings.
My mum stood her ground. She knew her body and, as a mother of two already, she recognised labour pains. Still, they only agreed to keep her in as a precaution. It was a decision that likely saved my life.
My dad couldn’t be with her—he was at home with my older brother and sister, both under four, as they had just moved to North Wales to be closer to my grandparents, my Nain and Taid (Welsh for grandma and granddad), who were both battling cancer. My mum, therefore, faced this terrifying experience alone.
When I think about her strength, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. But I’m also reminded of how the patriarchy in healthcare often dismisses women’s voices, forcing them to fight for the care they deserve.
Neonatal Care Then and Now
In the dream, I saw a strange merging of neonatal medicine and sepsis education, with mentions of a “golden hour” that doesn’t actually exist in neonatal care. Perhaps this reflects my work in spreading awareness of sepsis and its critical timelines. But it also highlighted how much neonatal care has evolved.
Back then, my mum had an amniocentesis, a common practice at the time but now much less so due to the risks of miscarriage. Medical technology was rudimentary. At one of my recent appointments, my mum came with me to a scan, and I’ll never forget her amazement.
“When I was pregnant with you and Nicholas, the scan equipment filled the whole room,” she said. “And now it’s this small machine with so much detail!”
Her awe reminded me of how incredible medical advancements are. Today, ultrasounds, neonatal equipment, and monitoring systems save lives in ways that would have been unimaginable in 1981.
The Weight of Loss
Despite these advances, my twin brother Nicholas didn’t survive. The grief my family experienced has always stayed with us. It shaped how I view the world and fuels my passion for ensuring families feel supported through the most challenging times.
My dream also reminded me of the delicate balance of life and loss that defines neonatal care. In 1981, premature babies like me had a much lower chance of survival. Today, those odds are significantly better, but the journey for families remains emotionally and physically taxing.
Family, Sacrifice, and Resilience
In my dream, I saw the sacrifices my family made so clearly. My dad staying home with my siblings while my mum faced labour alone wasn’t an easy decision, but it was necessary. They had just moved to North Wales, balancing the challenges of caring for young children, supporting my grandparents during their cancer treatment, and preparing for my arrival.
This part of the dream stayed with me because it reflects the resilience of families. The weight of caring for loved ones—whether they’re children, parents, or partners—can feel overwhelming, but it also brings out incredible strength and love.
How Far We’ve Come
Reflecting on this dream, I’m struck by how much has changed in neonatal care—and how much still needs to be done. Medical technology has advanced leaps and bounds, giving premature babies better chances of survival and improving outcomes for families.
Yet, the need to listen to mothers, to respect their knowledge of their own bodies, remains just as important now as it was in 1981. The dismissive treatment my mum experienced shouldn’t happen today, but for many women, it still does.
Why This Matters
This dream has left me with a deep sense of purpose. It’s a reminder of why I do what I do: to ensure no family feels unsupported, unheard, or dismissed. Whether it’s advocating for better neonatal care, supporting families dealing with loss, or spreading awareness of sepsis and other challenges, I want to make a difference.
Our journeys may be shaped by the past, but it’s what we do now that matters most.
If you’ve had similar experiences or thoughts about how neonatal care has changed—or how it hasn’t—please share them. Together, we can keep advocating for better care and support for families everywhere.
References
• Reflections from personal experience
• Conversations with family
• Historical context of neonatal care advancements
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