“Time seemed to stand still as the medical team worked on him” – Sophie’s Story #FullTermFeelings

Our baby Maximilian was due on Friday, 22nd March 2024. As the date arrived with no signs of labour, my partner and I decided to mark the occasion with one last dinner together. We laughed, savoured the moment, and spoke excitedly, wondering when we would be meeting our baby. The oxytocin was definitely flowing!

The next morning, life seemed to carry on as normal. I dropped my daughter at ballet and went to the supermarket to pick up some essentials. But as I was loading the shopping bags into the boot, at 9:36 a.m., my waters broke right there in the car park. I froze, overwhelmed by a mix of excitement and disbelief, before quickly heading home to gather myself.

At home, still blissfully unaware of how quickly everything was about to unfold, I made a cup of tea and sat bouncing on my birthing ball. I called my local birth centre to let them know, but with no twinges yet, it all felt surreal. My mum urged me to get ready “just in case.” Her mother’s instincts proved to be a lifesaver.

By 11:45 a.m., everything changed. Contractions began with a bang—intense and relentless. There was no slow build-up, just wave after wave. I knew he was on his way, fast! By 12:15 p.m., we were in the car, racing to the hospital.

Hailstones pounded as we arrived, and I had to stop every few metres to focus on breathing through the pain. The world around me blurred as I focused solely on getting through each contraction and getting inside. We made it to the labour ward at 1:00 p.m., where my cries echoed through the corridors. A midwife hurried me into a room, and I barely managed to climb onto all fours on the bed. I couldn’t even tell them my name!

Only 23 minutes later, at 1:23 p.m., in a whirlwind of pain and instinct, Maximilian was born at 40+1 weeks, weighing a healthy 8 lb 11 oz. Relief surged through me, but it was short-lived.

Within moments, the emergency bell rang. My partner, Joe, looked on helplessly as Max’s cord was cut and he was whisked away to the resuscitation area. Max was grey; his tiny body had no tone. A true knot in his cord had deprived him of oxygen. Time seemed to stand still as the medical team worked on him. I watched, numb and dazed, as my baby fought for his life. Then, finally, at 1:50 p.m., they placed Max in my arms. He looked so perfect, so peaceful, as if nothing had ever happened.

But the relief was fleeting. Not long after, Max began breathing rapidly – short, shallow breaths that we knew instinctively weren’t right. We called the midwife, and a team of paediatric doctors rushed in once again. His breathing rate was over 100 breaths per minute. Panic surged as they explained he needed to be transferred to the Special Care Baby Unit (SCBU).

Within 20 minutes, we found ourselves trailing behind Max’s cot as he was wheeled down unfamiliar corridors. In SCBU, Max was placed in an incubator, lying on his tummy, hooked up to monitors, IVs, and oxygen. Watching the nurses take over, I felt utterly powerless. Hearing his condition described clinically, in detached medical terms, made our hearts sink. I stood there, frozen, the enormity of the situation crashing down on me. 

Despite their kind reassurances, it was impossible not to feel the weight of our situation. The nurses tried to lift our spirits, joking that Max, a full-term baby, was the “chunky one” in the unit compared to the tiny preemies, some born as early as 26 weeks. But the sight of our baby surrounded by wires and machines shattered me.

The consultants explained that my fast labour hadn’t allowed Max to clear the fluid from his lungs, and because he hadn’t let out a big cry at birth, it had remained trapped. Hearing this, I couldn’t help but blame myself. I replayed every moment, wondering if I could have done something differently—slowed the delivery, done something to stop the infection. It wasn’t rational, but guilt clung to me like a shadow. I have since had counselling and utilised the birth reflection services. This has helped me to look at the scenario in a very different light; in actual fact, birthing him so quickly saved his life.

That first night, Joe and I sat beside Max, helplessly watching the numbers on the monitors. Every beep sent shivers down my spine and overwhelmed my senses. I tried to stay strong, but the exhaustion and fear were overwhelming and would come in waves.

Eventually, Joe went home to be with our then 3-year-old, and I walked alone back to my postnatal room because I had to rest. The emptiness of the corridor mirrored the ache in my chest. Leaving Max behind was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

By morning, I was back at SCBU as soon as I woke. The nurse greeted me warmly, remembering my name. That small act of kindness meant more than she’ll ever know. She reassured me that Max had rested well and helped us have some time skin-to-skin. Feeling his warmth against my chest gave me a glimmer of hope and happiness. I clung to breastfeeding as my way of helping him, pumping milk obsessively and offering the breast at every opportunity. Slowly, Max began to latch, and it became our shared triumph.

SCBU was a place of contrasts: sadness and fear hung in the air, but there were moments of light—an empathetic, knowing smile from another parent, a reassuring word from a nurse. Yet every time the consultants approached, I braced myself for more bad news.

Max’s infection was severe, and he needed a lumbar puncture to rule out meningitis. The first attempt failed, leaving me distraught. The second attempt, thankfully, succeeded, and we were relieved to hear he didn’t have meningitis.

Day by day, Max grew stronger, his observations improving. He no longer needed oxygen or the incubator. After 38 hours in SCBU, he was moved back to the ward with me, though he still required visits to SCBU every 4 hours for antibiotics and 2-hourly observations. We had one final setback when he needed phototherapy for jaundice, but after five long days, we were discharged.

Walking out of the hospital into the fresh air felt surreal. I had at times doubted we’d ever leave with our baby. As hailstones fell once more, we hurried to the car, half-expecting someone to call us back with bad news.

Today, Max is thriving. Even the tiny scars from over 40 heel pricks are now healed; there are no signs of his ordeal. He’s a strong, resilient little boy, and we are endlessly proud of him.

To any parents going through a similar experience:

Don’t neglect yourself. You need strength to be there for your baby, so eat, rest, and ask for help.

Advocate for your baby. Ask questions, push for answers, and keep notes. Knowledge is power.

Trust that, in time, this will become a memory, not a permanent reality.

Maximilian was born at the Great Western Hospital in Swindon on 23rd March 2024, at 40+1 weeks gestation. He is our miracle, and we will forever be grateful for his strength—and the incredible care he received. We are now planning his 1st birthday and hope to take him on his first holiday this year.