pushing himself and walking unaided within months…
And throughout this challenge Life lurched forward, shifting again. It was another big turning point, where the battle became extrinsic for me. There is a great period in your life when you are unencumbered by the responsibility of anyone other than yourself. It is a brilliant, unshackled adventure in time. But now I had to go to bat for my family (consisting of a husband at the time), and the extrinsic lessons began. The fight was and is no less passionate, but it was no longer just me.
Writing about one’s life is hard! I was told, “People need to know who you are, Melissa!” Looking back upon what I have shared with you, I see that it is but a fragment of a huge and complex life. As I go on through this journey I have chosen to fulfil, the unfolding is no less intense, but this a journey of purpose, and the “powerful play” goes on. If what I have shared appears obnoxious, or negative or self-pitying, my deepest apology; for that was not my intent. I assure you that writing about myself is the hardest and most uncomfortable part of this book.
Yet it is written for You. With purpose. With intent. What I hope so much that you will recognise through reading this is that I recognise and know your heart, through my own experiences. Know that I can empathise with all of the rubbish that you have gone through to get to this point; and I respect you for it, fellow warrior and potential healer that you are.
If you are, right now, in a place of despair, desperation or loneliness, then I invite you to take to heart the immortal words of Sir Winston Churchill (which I found on my friend Helen’s refrigerator magnet. Wisdom comes from the strangest places!).
“If you are going through Hell, keep going.”
You are making the right decisions.
Right now you are exactly where you need to be.
You are in the right place. It only gets better from here.
The Initiation
“Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.” –Carl Jung
“It’s a beautiful little boy!”
My history with cancer dictated a certain infertility, which was utterly contradicted by the beautiful baby they now placed on my abdomen. My exquisitely wonderful, healthy little boy: Johnathon Andrew.
Jack.
He didn’t cry. He just looked straight into my heart with those deep pool eyes, peacefully, contentedly, but somehow determinedly. It was as if he knew, as he does now, because he still knows.
You go through a pregnancy feeling that baby moving, relishing each kick, shuffle and roll from deep within your body, knowing that child. Yet that moment when they actually arrive…the moment they take their first breath on this planet and you meet them for the first time is truly, truly majestic.
There really is nothing like it.
Oh, the unfathomed beauty of my boy.
Jack went straight to the breast and had just finished feeding when there was a knock at the delivery room door. My father had come to the hospital to see if I was alright, not realizing that Jack had in fact arrived. Something magic occurred when these two met. Jack was twenty minutes old and his Pop, a tall mountain of a man, was cradling his little namesake with the gentleness only real love knows. As those old eyes looked up, staring into the misty eyes of an overwhelmed grandfather, a bond, unspoken and pure, was formed. A certain line was expanding; a certain contract coming into play.
There were congratulations all around as they wheeled us back to the ward. As everyone does, we showed off our small precious boy as if no-one had ever had a baby before. We were embarrassingly blissful. The next few hours were filled with wonderful friends and family arriving to celebrate, and in flooded an abundance of balloons, flowers and gifts. You could feel the relief of those closest to me, for this body of mine was tired. Illness, which had evolved into disease, had left my body battle weary and it had struggled under the weight of creation. Pregnancy had always been considered impossible for me and it had been difficult. Toward the end I had started to waste away, losing weight as the baby had flourished and seemed to just eat me alive. I loved being pregnant but it was clear my body didn’t, and the concern of those nearest to me was evident. This day relief came in the shape of a divine baby, an enormous individual.
Finally there was a lull in the visiting traffic and I was able to simply cherish my boy. He was fussing so I fed him, and went to change his diaper when I noticed his breathing…
His diaphragm seemed to be going into spasm. His breathing was a little wet. Was this normal newborn behaviour? His breathing was normal after delivery. I turned to my husband and asked him to drag out the baby books. No answers there. So I buzzed the nurse and asked to see a paediatrician.
The midwife who attended gave me that annoying, patronizing look. “You’re just nervous, Melissa. You’re a new mum, and it’s normal that you doubt yourself…”
I broke in, “I’m not the panicking kind. We need to see a paediatrician, now. I insist!” These last words I delivered about three inches from the midwife’s face. I had noticed my son’s nostrils flaring a little.
“You need to get back into bed and rest, Melissa.”
“Please, please get a paediatrician. Please!”
“Please get back into bed! I know you’re nervous…”
“I am not f…g nervous!” I picked Jack up and started walking as best I could, after twenty-four hours of labour and stitches to boot. “Where do I find a paediatrician?”
Because of my medical history we had chosen a Level 3 hospital, ready for all eventualities. We assumed if anyone might need that level of care, it would be me. In answer to my insistent demand, they brought the registrar down from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, because that was who was available at the time. She took a brief look at Jack, alarm struck her gaze, then she picked him up, saying to my husband, “You’d better follow me!” I had enough time to beg Andrew to not leave Jack’s side, and they took off at a run.
I was left sitting in the hospital room, alone. No explanation, but a generous amount of fear had been left with me, so I wouldn’t get bored or lonely. The silence in the room closed in around me. No one came to inform, explain, comfort or otherwise. Looking through the doorway of my room, I could see the concerned faces of the midwives and hear the hushed whispers as they glanced with trepidation toward my room.
I tried to get up and follow Jack, shuffling determinedly out of my room and down the hall, but the many hours of labour had taken their toll and I collapsed in the hallway, clinging to the rail on the wall. My heart was shredding within me, the sobs tearing within my chest, the tears falling unaccounted down my cheeks. Nobody was telling me anything! That was my son! I had been holding that little boy for nine months, what made them think I would let go now? Something was very wrong and I needed to get to my little boy.
Someone saw the grief-stricken heap in the corridor (me), and I heard yelling. I was ready to fight to the death to get to my son! I would not be going back to that room! It must have been written all over my face, because the nurses raced to me with a wheelchair, threw me in, and ran, pushing me, all the way to NICU.
Jack had been exposed to bacteria in the
