Phoebe’s Story

A Sudden Arrival

Phoebe arrived at just 26 weeks and 6 days. Looking back now, all the signs were there: the puffy face, the swollen feet, the feeling of just physically being poorly. Phoebe’s mum, Lisa, is one of the strongest, if not the strongest person I have ever met. Lisa had spent the final couple of weeks clearly struggling with severe pre-eclampsia. We did not know this at the time, putting it down as the third trimester. She was so unwell, yet she was so inspiringly strong, a complete warrior through it all. When it came to the hospital, it all happened so fast. It was terrifying.

The Blur of Emergency

By the time I got to the maternity ward’s intensive care room, it all became a blur. Fight or flight was in full effect. I remember clearly being given a help sheet about the possible outcomes at different weeks of delivery, and 26 weeks wasn’t even on there. It was a nightmare. Moments later, doctors and nurses flooded the room and said they needed to act now due to Lisa’s health. All of a sudden, there was silence.

A Moment of Isolation

I was in a room by myself, shell-shocked and not really having any idea of what was going on. I was terrified of losing Lisa and our baby. A very kind midwife got me a cup of tea and sat with me. I still remember all of the smells and sounds: the sound of delivery and rushed footsteps down the corridor, and beeping machines. When it came to the delivery, I was truly gutted to not have been able to be there. Again, that imagined future was not coming to fruition. I remember telling myself I was being silly, but for as long as I can remember, I have always wanted children, so the idea of not being there was painful.

First Moments and Small Victories

Because Phoebe was born so early and so poorly, she had to be rushed straight away to save her life. It was a while before I was able to have my first visit. I do remember, however, that by the time Lisa was coming back around, I had the joy of telling her how beautiful our new child is. 

When Lisa finally woke up, she was still disoriented from the medication. Her very first words to me were, “We don’t have a bathroom.” It is a bizarre, funny little memory in the middle of the darkest day of my life. But the moment right after that is etched into my soul forever, because I got to be the one to tell Lisa that we had a daughter. I look back at those moments with a sense of gratitude. The coming weeks were bleak, but there were also moments of intense happiness at the smallest things.

Facing the Challenges

We had to cherish those tiny wins just to survive the emotional labour. Even though Phoebe was here, our reality was completely detached from what normal parenting should be. For the first few weeks, I spent more time looking at monitors and screens than I did looking at my own daughter. I was terrified of touching her, terrified of hurting her because she was so impossibly fragile. Changing her nappy for the first time happened in slow motion. She was so small.

Learning to Understand

To cope with the sheer helplessness, I felt a driving need to understand absolutely everything. I watched every change in her reactions, every noise, every tiny movement. I needed to know what every beep on the monitor meant. I even remember panicking and obsessing over whether her hiccups were normal. The staff in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) were unbelievably amazing. I cannot find the words to express the depth of gratitude and awe I have for them. They are some of the most hardworking, dedicated, caring, and overwhelmingly beautiful people I have ever met. In the three months we spent there, I did not meet a single person who treated it as just a job.

A Dark Day

We did have one difficult moment. It was Father’s Day, and we had stepped away from the hospital for an hour to visit a Little Pickles market to try to do something normal with our friends. We were really happy and had a spring in our step. When we came back, the atmosphere had completely changed. We were not able to see Phoebe as there was an error with one of the lines, and it caused her lungs to collapse. Moments like that were so isolating. Being at the end of COVID meant that our families could not be there; all we had was each other.

That was one of the hardest bits. I felt like, as the Dad, I had to be strong and get through those moments without blinking so that I could support Lisa. But a really wonderful psychologist who worked on the ward helped so much by reminding us that we had to be there for each other, and I remember a flood of emotion pouring out of me. 

What was meant to be a positive day turned out to be one of the darkest and showed the fragility of the journey through NICU. We spent three months in the NICU, riding the highest highs and the lowest lows. We survived it, and today we have a happy, growing girl. But a trauma like that never completely leaves you.

Grief and Acceptance 

Even now, years later, there are certain smells and sounds that instantly trigger a physical shock response in me, throwing me straight back to the sounds of the unit. And despite how much time has passed, Lisa still gets incredibly sad whenever people talk about the normal process of giving birth. 

There is a deep grief for the things we were robbed of, the missing three months of pregnancy, the baby shower, and the peaceful entrance into motherhood that she never got to have. We missed out on so much of the journey we expected. But neonatal charities, people’s kindness, and the incredible NHS staff gave us the one thing that mattered most: they gave us our daughter’s future.