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Many of us have been through challenges in recent years. Three women share their experiences of turbulent times and why they feel grateful this Christmas
As we hang decorations on our tree, our thoughts will travel back to the Christmas when our son Hudson was desperately ill and awaiting an operation at Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH). Our unusual squirrel baubles remind us of the name of the ward where he spent three months, and the Mickey and Minnie Mouse decorations bring back memories of the special visitors who came to his bedside. Putting them up always reminds my husband Simon and me of the incredible care and kindness we received.
In July 2016 I was 27 weeks pregnant with twins. Simon and I were shopping for a double buggy when I suddenly felt dreadful. I sat down and realised my contractions had started. I willed them to stop, terrified of giving birth that early, but it didn’t do any good. The next day, Hudson and his brother Hank were delivered by emergency caesarean while I was under general anaesthetic. When I came round, Simon told me that Hank, who weighed 2lb 4oz, was in neonatal intensive care. Hudson, 3oz lighter, had been moved by ambulance to a unit at St George’s Hospital in London, 20 miles away.
We’d known that Hudson was likely to be the frailer of our two boys. When I was 16 weeks pregnant, a scan had shown that his digestive system wasn’t working as it should. His oesophagus – the tube connecting his mouth and stomach – wasn’t developing properly. The doctors had said Hudson would need an operation after he was born, but they had been reassuring, so we had tried not to panic at the time.
An elective caesarean had been planned for 34 weeks, but my labour started early, possibly triggered, doctors think, by an undiagnosed infection. The babies’ early arrival was an emotional test for our family – me, Simon and our eldest son, Harris, who was then eight.
As the summer turned to autumn, Simon and I rushed between our tiny newborn sons, who were in intensive care in different hospitals. I slept in a Ronald McDonald house for parents of sick children, close to the hospital where Hudson lay, while I tried not to feel guilty about being away from Harris, who was staying with my parents, Eve and Steve.
It was a relief when Hank was discharged from hospital after eight weeks, but Hudson was still struggling. In November, he was transferred to GOSH and Hank and I moved into a shared house for families provided by the GOSH charity. I couldn’t fault the help we’d had before, but GOSH was another level. Everyone was so friendly, and the doctors had such a can-do attitude.
Christmas – our first as a family of five – was looming and, with Hudson’s first operation planned for early January, we had no choice but to be separated, or at least pulle
