A decade of love; and the trauma that preceded it.

My son turned 10 this year.

We’ve had a whole decade of loving this boy.

And I’m eternally grateful for what we’ve witnessed, experienced and shared with him so far.

This kid is hilarious, he calls me ‘bruh’ and ‘son’ as he expands his sense of self and curiosity. He is loud, yet carries a subtle energy that greets you with a warm welcome. He is always moving - literally, he never stops. Golf, CrossFit, balls in the backyard, outdoor nature programs, chase, running after our two kelpies, mowing the lawn for his Grams and Pa. Frisbee, down-ball, basketball, park plays, bike rides, fishing - there’s always something happening.

And I will never wish for him to change.

He is kind, selfless and always sharing his things. He's quick to forgive and doesn’t leave anybody out. He’s open, affectionate, and did I say kind? I can’t get over how kind he is. He’s a sensitive soul, aware of more than he lets on, and always speaks up when something isn’t fair. He’s fiery, feisty, and quick to cuddle those he loves. He’s simple in his wants and can be honest to a fault.

But mostly, this kid reminds me to live.

We’ve had our fair share of hard times; the physical and mental uphill battles we fought to regain his cognitive function at 2 years old, the endless nights he spent by my side terrified of the dark, navigating a school that couldn’t offer him what he needed, the frustration and anger that needed safe expression and validation, the openings of self-doubt that wove in his mind.

We’re no strangers to the way hardship is entwined with the beauty of life when it comes to this kid.

His birth prepared me for that. Prepared me to be the kind of mother he would need.

It was traumatic, emotional, powerful.

And whilst I struggled with the hurt on my heart for many many years, I now have the gift of truth firmly within me - I am the perfect mother for him.

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What follows is a journal entry from 2020, written the night before his 6th birthday, as I lit a candle, ready to feel what once almost broke me.

Please note; this story has elements of a traumatic birth.

“An easy pregnancy, with a quiet toddler by my side, I was very blessed with my experience. We eagerly awaited labour, and much like last time, we had to wait a while. Apparently I make cosy homes. I remember instinctively knowing that my body remembered the way, gracefully and powerfully taking charge. From the onset, contractions were 60 seconds long, 60 seconds apart, and I remember swaying my hips with my husband holding me up. I remember the subtle sounds escaping my lips, murmurs to my body and my baby. To the outside ear I’m sure it sounded like a foreign language. Perhaps it was, a deep long ago forgotten language of intention and love. 

Labour was utterly magical, there is no other way to describe it; but grace and beauty were quickly replaced as I tried to push my baby out. On my knees with ‘he’s stuck’ repeatedly coming out of my mouth, I couldn’t grasp the following fleeting moments, even if I tried. I was flipped onto my back and my baby was pulled out of me. He landed on my chest with instructions from the midwives to blow on his face to encourage him to breathe. One moment we are blowing on this tiny baby’s face, and then the next, the room is swarming with doctors and my baby is taken from me.

He was put on a table where I couldn’t see him, and my husband’s whispered words of ‘I think I saw balls. I think we have a boy’ sounded quietly as I birthed the placenta on the floor, not knowing why my baby wasn’t with me. That was when the fear and disbelief hit. This couldn’t be happening; his pulse was fine the whole labour. That was the only thing running through my mind, and out of my mouth. As they wheeled my baby out of the room, I asked my husband to go with him. I didn’t want my baby to be alone, but that left me alone, on the floor, bleeding. As I was helped up and stitched up all I could do was shake silently. 

After what felt like a lifetime, I was able to see my baby. We did have a boy. A beautiful little boy, who had a tube down his nose, an IV in his leg, a breathing mask over his tiny face, and so many wires and patches hooking him up to machines. We weren’t allowed to hold him. I remember staring at him in disbelief – how did we go from beauty to horror?

As I was wheeled to my room for rest, I whispered the closest thing I could to an apology; ‘You weren’t supposed to come into the world this way’.

There was so much shame and failure coursing through my body. I called my dad to tell him about his grandson. His response was one expressing his and my mother’s disappointment at not being informed of my being in labour and how they wouldn’t have known if something had happened. Well, something had happened and that was the last thing I needed to hear. My husband was gentle and loving with me, but he needed to go – we had no belongings, no supplies with us. I was crushed; we were supposed to leave as a family. I sat in the special care nursery, I watched, and I barely took a breath. Every time a machine beeped a nurse would come over, check him, and leave. I was petrified. I had no clue what the beeping meant, or why the nurses kept leaving. 

It was a full 24 hours until I could hold my baby. I was so scared I would hurt him with all the tubes and wires. He looked so tiny. We couldn’t even name him for not being able to see his face around the oxygen mask. I couldn’t sleep, replaying the birth every time I closed my eyes. My milk wasn’t coming in and I was exhausted. I would put on a brave face for my firstborn, coming to visit her baby brother. ‘Why he in here, Mummy?’ my daughter asked of his incubator. ‘To get strong enough to come home, baby girl.’ Those words are still filled with so much emotion. 

After three days in the special care nursery, with no sleep, no milk, and a whole lot of shame and regret, I was raw. I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that he wasn’t breathing upon entering the world, that he’ d been resuscitated, and we were working our way towards home. Sitting by his side alone, a nurse sat down next to me, and I will never forget the words that left her mouth: ‘Your son has early signs of heart failure. We’re transporting him to the Royal Children’s.’ As she stood up to make the arrangements, I was stunned, horrified, and the most scared I have ever been in my entire life. I was barely able to repeat the words to my husband. How was this even possible? Just hours earlier we thought we’d be home in a few days. Heart failure? Was he in danger? Was he dying? I was terrified. 

I was allowed in the ambulance for transport, but my husband wasn’t. I can’t imagine what that hour-long drive must have been like for him. The Royal Children’s Hospital was eerie, like it has an energy all of its own, almost daunting. More machines. More beeping. More holding our breath. Our baby girl at home without us, our baby boy taken away for tests. Sitting alone with my husband, time stood still and I could feel every breath I wasn’t taking.

‘His tests are clear; we're transferring him back to Geelong.’ Another ambulance ride and we were greeted with, ‘We are discharging your son’.

What the actual fuck? Twenty-four hours ago, I was told my baby had early signs of heart failure, and now we’re going home? How do I even look after him? There are no machines at home … what if his heart stops? How, tell me, how do I mother like this? 

I hadn’t slept for five days. I didn’t even understand what had taken place in the last five days, and now I was taking this precious baby home. I was paralysed.

One beautiful doctor must have seen the horror on my face. Lawrence … I will never forget his kindness. He pulled me aside and explained that everything had been prompted by the doctors, not my son’s condition, and that it was perfectly safe to be taking my baby home. It didn’t put me at ease, but at least I had some small understanding, and at least I would have my husband with me, and my daughter would have her mother and brother home. 

Our hospital journey ends here, but sadly my trauma, anxiety, and shame did not. For the first eight months of his life, every time his breathing monitor sounded a warning beep, I was paralysed, physically unable to get out of bed and check on him for fear I would find my baby dead. I couldn’t tell my story. I was hurting terribly, but remembering was even more painful. Months and months of nightmares, replaying the birth as I closed my eyes. Friends lovingly telling me I did good, that it wasn’t my fault and that he’s healthy. None of it sunk in.

I carried this trauma. I carried it so close to my heart. Even now, six years to the exact moment that I went into labour, I can still feel the hurt on my heart. Perhaps it is something I will always carry with me.”

It’s hard to believe this was a decade ago. I still remember the feeling, viscerally - the excitement of being allowed to feed my baby boy for the first time, his 4th day earth side. The tendrils of shame, failure and fear had taken a backseat, just for one perfect moment with him.

If you like reading memoirs, you might enjoy my new book Hope: A Journey of Self Love. It’s a raw and vulnerable read, featuring journal entries (like the one above) from some of the hardest and darkest moments of my life.

It’s heartbreaking, it’s captivating, it’s empowering.

It tells the story of me, in my self-hatred, in my motherhood, in my marriage and in my broken sense of self. It tells the story of me, climbing out of the depths of my own despair, burning down the illusions that had ruled my existence and creating a life filled with love, purpose and peace.