I never had that glow that seemed to settle so nicely on others.

What should have been one of the happiest and most exciting times of our lives just wasn’t quite working out that way.  Not at first.

Our best friends had had their first baby nearly a year previously and now we felt the time was right for us too.  But it didn’t happen right away.  We tried for nearly two years to fall pregnant with our first baby. We had various tests and treatments and waited patiently.

Our friends were now pregnant with their second child.  We were honestly happy for them but, at times, it was difficult for us not to wonder why it was so easy for them and not so easy for us.  We kept faith that one day we would fall pregnant too.

A couple of months later that day arrived and we were expecting our first-born! A September baby!  A more wonderful birthday present I couldn’t imagine!

My happiness waned with the onset of persistent and dreadful morning sickness.  And, “Who called it ‘morning’ sickness?” I often wondered.  Honestly,  I was practically sick all day, every day!  I was told it would pass by the first trimester and so, eagerly, I waited for that magic milestone.  But it came and passed and no magic transpired.

My doctor became concerned about my ever-increasing blood pressure and not too long into the pregnancy, I had developed pre-eclampsia.  His advice to stop working was taken seriously and I immediately quit my job and hoped that would do the trick.  But at 26 weeks into the pregnancy, the darned blood pressure was still on the increase and bed rest in hospital was the prescribed remedy. And so began a period of seemingly unending days spent in a hospital room with little distraction except for a visitor here and there.

About two weeks into my hospital stay, my best friend appeared in the doorway of my hospital room.  “Thank God, a visitor!” I thought.  Only this time she wasn't a visitor.  Jenny was in labour with her second child and she had asked for the bed next to mine in the ward.  Up until now hospital life had been tedious.  But now here was my friend, she was about to have a baby and I was glad she was here with me. 

Later that afternoon Jenny returned from the delivery room with her little cherub.  A tumultuous fanfare of visitors graced our room that night.  A burgeoning array of flowers adorned every nook and cranny until there was room for no more.

I knew most of Jenny’s family and so as the numbers of excited visitors grew around Jenny’s bed, the overflow spilled to me.  It was a happy night and, for those few hours, I forgot about my worries.

Before sunrise, the morning routine of the maternity ward had begun.  The clank and jingle of the cups and saucers on the tea trolley could be heard as the tea lady made her way up the corridor, stopping every so often to ask the occupant of each bed how they had their tea or coffee.  She would deliver to them their hot sustenance accompanied by a plain biscuit.

The rattle and din of the tea trolley got louder and louder as it drew closer.  I enjoyed, with a whisper of delight, having a cup of tea delivered to my bed.  If I must be woken at 5am every morning, a cup of tea in bed was small consolation indeed.

The nursing staff did their rounds, turned lights up and flung open the drapes.  With my shared room now dripping in white light, it was annoying each morning to look out my window only to see my reflection mirrored back at me because it was still so dark outside.  If I tried hard enough to peer past the reflection, I could just make out the houses on the hillside that were yet to wake from slumber.  Not so in maternity ward, everyone was awake.   At least, today I would have Jenny beside me to keep me company all day!

The arrival of babies in clear plastic tubs heralded in the 6am feeding time.  Some babies eagerly searched for mum’s breast with wide open mouths.  Others, still sleepy, needed to be cajoled into drinking.

The morning rituals were well underway again.  Babies were fed, bathed and dressed.  The smell of toast wafting through the air accompanied by another round of rattle and din of the breakfast trolley meandering up the hallway, announced the arrival of breakfast.

My doctor arrived too.  This morning he had with him, not just one nurse, but two.

Strangely perhaps, I had come to look forward to a visit from my doctor. It was a slight distraction from the hum-drum of the day and for just those few minutes, I was important

This morning’s visit from my doctor started with the usual greetings and questions about how I was feeling.  And then everything turned into a blur.  What was he saying?  I’ve got to go where?  Fly? Ambulance? Right now! Huh, have my baby tonight? What!

I was utterly stunned and confused.  What was happening?  The nurses were packing up my belongings and there was no time, not even for my husband to be summoned from work to see me before I went.  I looked over at Jenny.  I recall the look of bewilderment on Jenny’s face and imagined that it mirrored my own.

In a matter of minutes my things had been packed, papers were ready and on the foot of my bed and the wardsmen were preparing to wheel me out of the hospital to the waiting ambulance.  At that moment Jenny asked for them to wait.  She reached over and pulled a long-stemmed red rose from her flowers and gave it to me with a sombre wish of good luck.  I feigned a smile and said everything would be alright.  I wanted so much to believe that.  As I was wheeled down the hallway, tears rolled silently from the corners of my eyes and melted away into my pillow.

I was being sent to a major women’s hospital in Brisbane.  My baby was distressed and, apparently, I was not doing well either.  My doctor felt that my small baby and I would fair much better under the care of one of his colleagues and a better equipped facility.  My baby was just over 29 weeks gestation.

When I arrived at the hospital that afternoon, I was scared and alone.  I thought it wouldn’t be long before my baby would be born and I just wanted my husband to be there and hold me before they took me into theatre.   I was examined and tests were run and I waited for what seemed eternity on a bed in a cold, impersonal and quiet room.

Some hours later the specialist returned and advised me that although my health and that of my baby wasn’t good and hadn’t improved in the course of the day, it hadn’t worsened.  He wanted to wait for as long as possible and give my baby the chance to develop stronger lungs.

That evening I was moved to another maternity ward and shared a room with a mum who had delivered twins.  My husband had arrived too and now we played the waiting game again.

Over the following day, it became unbearable for me to sit in the room with the twin babies and their very happy and excited mum and dad.  I tried to be happy for them but I became increasingly distressed.  My husband quietly spoke to the nursing staff and the next morning I was moved to another room by myself.  I was thankful for the move.

With smooth seas prevailing for now, my husband returned to work with a promise to be back within hours if anything changed.  The waiting game continued and for now that was all I wanted.

Days again passed at snail’s pace.  I had been lonely in the hospital in my home town, now I was isolated, but that was okay if it meant I was in the right place for the health of my baby.

One morning, the doctor visited and so did déjà vu.  It was time.  We couldn’t wait any longer.  My baby would be born within hours.

I’m not sure why but I felt calmer inside this time.  The nurses readied me for theatre and my husband had been told it was time to make his way back to the hospital.  He made it in time for just a quick hug outside of the theatre and then our lives were about to change.

I was told my blood pressure was extremely high.  I asked about the possibilities of what might happen and quickly wished I hadn't asked.  I really wasn't expecting the response.  There was the real possibility that I could have a heart attack during the caesarean delivery.  As the anaesthetic was administered, the last thing I heard was an astronomical blood pressure reading.  At that moment, and for just an instant, I realised that I just might not come through this.

I recall my husband and a friend being beside me as I was wheeled out of the theatre into the hallway.  I heard him say that we had a baby boy.  My eyelids seemed so heavy.  I couldn’t open them.  I heard him say he was going to find out how the baby was doing.  I didn't wake again until the very early hours of the next morning.

I hadn’t been taken back to the ward but to a recovery room.  I didn’t really know it at the time but I was still very sick.  I drifted in and out during those very early hours of the morning and by daybreak I could keep my eyes open.  By mid morning I had improved and on the way back to the ward, my bed was wheeled into the special care nursery where I had a glimpse of our son, Christopher.

Christopher was born 9 weeks premature, weighing 3lb 12oz.  He was in a humidicrib and on a respirator.

I quickly grew stronger and it was only then, when I was feeling much better, that I realised I had indeed been ill for quite some time.

Over the coming days I would go down to the special care nursery and watch my little guy struggle to live and breathe.  He really wasn’t much longer than the palm of my husband’s hand and his skin was almost transparent.  He was in the critical care unit of the nursery; a bastion armed with an array of monitors and alarms. There were only two other babies in the unit and each had their own specialist paediatric nurse watching over them.

We played the waiting game again.  We knew this game now … being patient, not expecting too much but just hoping with all of our being that with the passing of each hour and each day things would be better.

Little by little, Christopher improved and was moved from the critical unit to another and, a couple of days after that, he finally graduated to plain and simple, ‘special care’!

I was now well enough to leave hospital but without the means of being able to stay nearby to the hospital, I didn’t have much choice but to go home and leave my precious little baby in the care of the hospital’s staff.

I rang every morning and night to check on his progress.  I hung on each word as staff told me how he was going and how much weight he had put on.  Each and every gram he gained was eagerly reported to family and friends.  When the news finally came that he was to be transferred to our local hospital, I was there ready and waiting for the ambulance to arrive with its precious patient.

What a wonderful day that was.  I held my firstborn for the very first time.  He was nearly four weeks old.

I spent as much of my waking time at the hospital as I possibly could.  It was wonderful to be able to look after him now; even if I did have to share him with the nursing staff.  He was still tube fed but growing bigger and stronger and now we were really able to look ahead to the day we would be taking our little fellow home with us.

That day arrived when Christopher was six weeks old.  We took our little boy home.  We were a family at last.  And the waiting game was done.