Two years ago today, I was picked up at 8:30 in the morning by my mum and dad. We were heading to Southampton for my hospital admission, and we fully expected the usual hassle. The roads to Southampton are often a nightmare—busy, slow-moving, and unpredictable. But somehow, that day, we made it in just over an hour and a quarter. It was one of those rare moments where the traffic gods were kind to us.
We even had time for a cuppa before heading into the hospital. It was during that quiet moment, sitting with my mum and dad, trying to steady my nerves, that I suddenly realised—I’d forgotten my crutches. I’d been managing short distances without them at that point, trying to stay mobile and positive. But I knew I was going to need them after Amelia was born. That realisation hit me like a brick. Thankfully, the physio department at the hospital were amazing. They sorted me out with a new pair of crutches without any fuss, and I’ll always be grateful for their kindness and speed.
At midday, I was due to be admitted. The plan was for me to be first in line for a C-section the next morning, but as these things often go, I ended up being second. It didn’t matter much—I was already feeling the weight of the day.
The admission process took a while. Taking blood was a challenge—they had to try five times before they were successful. Then came the medical history. Mine is never short, and even the staff commented on how long it took. I was in that room for well over an hour and a half. All the while, my anxiety was growing.
What made it harder was that Ryan couldn’t be with me straight away. He couldn’t get the day off work, as neonatal leave didn’t exist then like it does now. So after finishing work, he got the train to Southampton and stayed overnight with friends. We hadn’t yet moved into Ronald McDonald House. Everything felt a bit makeshift, a bit uncertain—but we made it work.
I remember sitting in that hospital room, fear sitting heavy on my chest. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I didn’t know if Amelia would be okay. I didn’t even know if I’d be okay. That level of fear is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
And yet… here we are. Two years on. And Amelia? She’s thriving.
She is wild and wonderful, adventurous and hilarious, cheeky and full of life. She climbs, runs, laughs with her whole body, and keeps us on our toes in the best way. Every time she wraps her arms around me or says something new, I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.
Two years ago, I was terrified. Today, I’m full of gratitude.
If you’re about to walk into something similar—if you’re sitting in that hospital room right now, unsure of what tomorrow will look like—I see you. I’ve been there. And I want you to know it’s okay to be scared. You’re doing something extraordinary. And you’re not alone.
Let’s keep talking about these journeys.
If any of this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story. Leave a comment, share your experience, and don’t forget to like and subscribe to the blog. Your voice might help someone else feel a little less alone.
References:
NHS Neonatal Leave Policy (2023 Update) Bliss Charity – Supporting parents of babies born premature or sick: https://www.bliss.org.uk
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