“Your baby is too ill to remain here. We’re transferring him to the PICU for more advanced care.”
As the nurse’s words sank in, an overwhelming wave of panic washed over me. I struggled to breathe. Just moments ago, my newborn son had been rushed to the pediatric unit of the hospital, lethargic and battling a dangerously high fever of 101.3—anything above 100.4 is treated as an emergency in newborns. He was whisked away for a spinal tap, leaving me in shock.
At only five days old, my son’s health was rapidly declining; he was having trouble breathing, his heart rate was soaring, and his blood pressure was plummeting. My husband collapsed in a heap, sobbing uncontrollably, and I soon joined him, both of us feeling utterly powerless as medical professionals surrounded our little boy, now the most critically ill patient in the hospital.
As the doctors raced to uncover the reason for his alarming condition, the hospital chaplain entered our room, seeking permission to pray for our son or read his last rites. After much hesitation, we acquiesced. That day remains etched in my memory.
The whirlwind of traumatic events that followed plunged me into a deep personal despair that I never want to face again. For the next two days, we willed our baby to survive as he received oxygen, fluids, and treatment for severe jaundice. Eventually, a urine culture revealed he had contracted a serious MRSA infection, which was the root of his sudden, fierce illness. He was placed on a regimen of two potent antibiotics.
The doctors explained that the bacteria had entered through the inflamed circumcision site, wreaking havoc throughout his body. Thankfully, the MRSA had not invaded his blood or spinal fluid, and he was going to survive. Yet, every moment was critical. A severe case of epiglottitis had nearly blocked his airway, threatening his ability to breathe and speak.
The circumcision site had turned necrotic, as had his umbilical cord stump. Disturbingly, no one could tell us when, or even if, they would heal. Septic lesions appeared on my baby’s abdomen, groin, and tongue, making breastfeeding risky for me. Instead, I pumped every two hours, around the clock, and even though stress caused my milk supply to dwindle to a mere trickle, I clung to my lactation consultant’s mantra, “Breast is Best.”
Throughout our three-week hospital stay, I fought against the despair that threatened to envelop my mind. With every needle prick my son endured, I cried out in agony. The days dragged on as we anxiously awaited news on whether he would suffer any lasting effects from the infection.
I began to resent the constant stream of residents who came to examine my son, treating him like a rare specimen. Nurses kindly arranged for me to sleep in a vacant wing of the hospital at night, but I would wake up drenched and shivering, my body recovering from a severe case of mastitis in addition to giving birth. After changing into dry clothes, I would meticulously pump, watching blood-tinged droplets collect until only air remained. I spread lanolin on my raw, cracked nipples, tried to grab a few more hours of sleep, and then trudged back to my son’s room, broken and exhausted.
Surrounded by people, I have never felt more alone.
Although my son eventually made a full recovery, I battled PTSD for two years. The weight of this trauma overwhelmed me, leaving me in a constant state of fight or flight. Seven years later, I thought I had moved past it; I believed I was in the clear. Then COVID struck, shattering any sense of control I had. The uncertainty of the future sent my sense of security spiraling, and the trauma resurfaced with a vengeance.
Avoidance is a common response to emotional pain, especially in those with PTSD, and any situation resembling the original trauma can trigger those suppressed feelings. Trauma can limit our perspective, overwhelming us and pushing us into survival mode. Dr. Helene Brenner, a psychologist and trauma expert, explained to me that the traumatic experience with my son instilled a profound sense of loss of control, which COVID exacerbated because it, too, is a deadly infection.
In the early days after we returned home from the hospital, I masked my lingering feelings of helplessness by exerting control wherever possible—meticulously timing my son’s naps and logging every ounce of milk he drank. Yet, my anxiety was evident; my body reacted with clenched jaws, tight shoulders, and a stomach in knots. My husband and I took turns sleeping, but true rest eluded me, and I had been prescribed a sedative to help with sleep. My baby’s cries jolted me awake, flooding me with adrenaline. I was trapped in a state of constant fear and unease.
As COVID continued, my feelings of vulnerability intensified, pushing my system into overdrive. I began sleeping 10-12 hours each night, only to wake feeling drained and numb. It became clear that I hadn’t fully healed from the trauma and PTSD I had experienced seven years prior; I had never confronted the pain.
Difficult emotions can become trapped in our bodies if we don’t process them. Suppressing pain means holding onto past trauma. Dr. Brenner suggested that to heal, one should reassess current dangers and revisit feelings from the traumatic event. “Acknowledge the feeling,” Dr. Brenner advised, recommending that I reframe my perspective: “Yes, I may feel similarly, but this is a different situation. I lacked control the first time, but do I have more control now? Is this situation different? What do I know to be true? [My son] is older; we understand more about this [illness]; I know there are treatments available; and I am not alone.”
Implementing Dr. Brenner’s advice, I wrote a letter to my younger self from seven years ago:
To Me, the mother who nearly lost her baby, I know you are struggling, and I regret not being there for you when you needed me. When your heart longed for warmth, I left you in the cold. When you were shattered, I ignored your pain. When you needed to speak, I silenced you. When you felt utterly alone, I pushed you further away. I am so sorry. I am here now. I am ready to confront your pain and help you heal. Mama, you will be okay. I will be okay.
Reflecting on my son’s current health helps me put the past into perspective. I am beginning to excavate the residual trauma buried deep within me and am finally able to acknowledge the pain I had previously suppressed. I have opened my heart to receive the self-compassion and empathy I had denied myself. I have removed the glass and am starting to heal.
For more insights on home insemination, check out this related article. It’s important to remember that healing is a process, and there are excellent resources available for those navigating similar experiences, including information on treatment plans.
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Summary:
This article recounts a mother’s harrowing experience with her newborn son’s life-threatening MRSA infection and her subsequent struggles with PTSD. After feeling a sense of control return following her son’s recovery, the emergence of COVID reignited her trauma. Through expert advice and personal reflection, she learns to confront her feelings and begins the healing process.