“Your baby needs more specialized care; we’re transferring him to the PICU.” The nurse’s words hit me like a tidal wave of dread. I struggled to breathe. Just moments before, my newborn son had been rushed into the hospital for urgent care. With a concerning fever of 101.3 and extreme lethargy, he was quickly taken for a spinal tap.
At only five days old, my baby’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. He was having difficulty breathing, his heart rate was alarmingly high, and his blood pressure kept dropping. It felt surreal, as if I were watching a nightmare unfold. My husband collapsed beside me, his body shaking with despair, and I soon joined him on the floor, helpless as medical professionals swarmed around our little boy, who was now the most critically ill patient in the hospital.
As doctors raced to understand the cause of his alarming decline, the hospital chaplain entered, asking if we’d allow him to pray for our son, or even read his last rites. Despite our protests, we eventually acquiesced. That day remains etched in my memory.
The following days were a whirlwind of fear and anguish. We prayed for our baby’s survival as he received oxygen and treatment for severe jaundice. A urine culture eventually identified a dangerous MRSA infection as the culprit behind his sudden illness, leading to the administration of two strong antibiotics. The doctors explained that the bacteria had entered through his circumcision site, causing widespread harm. Fortunately, MRSA had not entered his bloodstream or spinal fluid; he would survive, but every moment was critical. A severe case of epiglottitis had nearly blocked his airway, jeopardizing his ability to breathe.
The circumcision site was turning black with necrosis, as was his umbilical cord stump. No one could tell us when, or even if, they would heal. Septic lesions appeared on his abdomen, groin, and tongue, making breastfeeding an infection risk for me. Instead, I pumped every two hours, even as stress diminished my milk supply. I clung to my lactation consultant’s mantra, “Breast is Best,” and refused to give up.
Throughout our three-week hospital stay, I fought to keep despair at bay. Each needle poke my son endured sent me into a spiral of anguish. Days passed agonizingly slow as we waited to see if he would suffer any lasting effects from the infection. I began to resent the endless stream of residents who entered our room, examining him as if he were a rare specimen. Nurses kindly arranged for me to sleep in a quiet part of the hospital at night, but I would wake up drenched in sweat, battling mastitis on top of recovering from childbirth. After changing my soaked clothes, I would pump, watching blood-tinged droplets collect until only air remained. Each time, I layered lanolin on my cracked nipples, then stumbled back to my son’s room, utterly exhausted.
Surrounded by staff, I felt profoundly alone.
Though my son eventually made a full recovery, I struggled with PTSD for the next two years. The weight of that trauma profoundly impacted my mental and physical state, keeping me in a constant state of fight or flight. I thought I had moved past it, but then COVID hit, and my sense of control shattered, triggering memories of that traumatic time.
Avoiding emotional pain is common in PTSD, and any reminders of the past can cause suppressed feelings to resurface. Dr. Helene Brenner, a psychologist and trauma expert, explained that my experience with my son’s illness left me feeling out of control, and COVID, being another serious infection, naturally reignited those survival instincts in my brain.
In the early days home from the hospital, I tried to exert control by meticulously scheduling my son’s naps and tracking every ounce of milk he consumed. Despite this, my anxiety manifested physically; my jaw was clenched, my shoulders tight, and my stomach knotted with unease. My husband and I took turns sleeping, but I struggled to find rest, often needing a sedative. The sound of my baby’s cries startled me awake, flooding me with adrenaline, keeping me in a state of constant fear.
As COVID intensified, my vulnerability soared, pushing my system into overdrive. I began sleeping excessively, only to wake up feeling drained and emotionally numb. I realized I hadn’t truly healed from my past trauma; I had buried it instead of facing it.
Dr. Brenner advised me that unprocessed emotions can become trapped in our bodies. To heal, I needed to confront my past trauma and re-evaluate my current situation. She suggested I acknowledge my feelings and reframe my perspective.
Taking her advice, I wrote a letter to my younger self, the mother who nearly lost her baby. I apologized for not being there when she needed support, for silencing her pain, and for pushing her away when she felt alone. I reminded her that she would be okay and that I was here to help her heal.
Reflecting on my son’s current health has helped me gain perspective. I’m starting to unearth the trauma I had buried deep within, acknowledging the pain I had chosen to ignore for survival’s sake. I’ve opened my heart to the compassion I desperately needed, allowing myself to begin the journey of healing.
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In summary, my experience with my newborn’s MRSA infection and subsequent PTSD reshaped my life. The arrival of COVID reignited old fears, revealing that I had not fully processed my trauma. Through writing and self-reflection, I have begun to heal and embrace the compassion I need for my journey forward.
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