“Your baby is too ill to remain here. We need to transfer him to the PICU for more intensive care.”
As the nurse’s words sank in, a wave of panic washed over me. I struggled to breathe. Just moments before, my newborn son had been urgently brought to the pediatric unit, lethargic and with a dangerously high fever of 101.3 (anything above 100.4 is considered an emergency for newborns). He was swiftly taken for a spinal tap.
At only five days old, my baby’s condition was deteriorating rapidly; he was having trouble breathing, his heart rate was alarmingly high, and his blood pressure was plummeting. In disbelief, I tried to grasp this horrific turn of events. My child was fighting for his life. In my peripheral vision, I saw my partner collapse onto the floor, overwhelmed with despair, and I soon followed, crumpling beside him in silence. We could only watch helplessly as a team of medical professionals surrounded our little boy, now the most critically ill patient in the hospital.
As the doctors scrambled to determine what was causing our son’s rapid decline, the hospital chaplain entered our room, asking for permission to pray over our son (or possibly read his last rites). Despite our persistent refusals, we ultimately consented. That day is etched in my memory forever.
The whirlwind of traumatic events that followed plunged me into a profound personal anguish that I hope never to experience again. We willed our baby to survive the next two days as he received oxygen, fluids, and treatment for severe jaundice. Finally, a urine culture identified a life-threatening MRSA infection as the culprit behind our son’s sudden and severe illness, and he was prescribed a course of two potent antibiotics.
The doctors explained that the bacteria had entered through the compromised site of his circumcision, wreaking havoc throughout his body. To our immense relief, MRSA had not infected his blood or spinal fluid; he was going to survive. Nevertheless, every moment was critical. A severe case of epiglottitis had almost blocked his airway, stolen his voice, and jeopardized his ability to breathe.
The circumcision site had developed necrosis, and his umbilical cord stump was similarly affected. Disturbingly, no one could tell us when, or if, it would heal. Septic lesions appeared on my baby’s abdomen, groin, and tongue, making breastfeeding an infection risk for me. Consequently, I pumped every two hours, day and night, and although stress had caused my milk supply to dwindle to a mere trickle, I clung to my lactation consultant’s mantra, “Breast is Best,” and refused to give up.
Throughout our three-week hospital stay, I fought against the despair that threatened to engulf my mind. With each needle prick and procedure my son endured, I cried out in visceral anguish. Each passing day felt agonizingly slow as we waited to learn whether our child would suffer any lasting damage from the infection.
I began to resent the parade of residents who filed into our room, examining our son as if he were a rare specimen. Nurses kindly arranged for me to sleep in a quiet wing of the hospital at night, but I often awoke soaked and shivering, my body recovering from a severe case of mastitis on top of my recent childbirth. After changing my drenched sheets and clothing, I would painstakingly connect my breasts to the pump, watching blood-tinged droplets collect in the tube until only air remained. I slathered lanolin on my raw, cracked nipples, managed a few more fitful hours of sleep, and then dragged myself back to my son’s hospital room, feeling utterly broken.
Surrounded by people, I’ve never felt so alone.
Although my son made a full recovery, I battled PTSD for another two years. The weight of this trauma consumed my fragile body and mind, keeping me in a constant state of fight or flight. I genuinely believed that after seven years, I had fully healed; I thought I was past it.
Then COVID hit, shattering any sense of control I had left. With an uncertain future, my sense of security vanished, and the trauma resurfaced with a vengeance. Instead of confronting my feelings, I had buried them, and now they were back, more intense than ever.
Avoiding or suppressing emotional pain is a hallmark of PTSD, and anything reminiscent of the original trauma can trigger these buried emotions. Dr. Helene Brenner, a psychologist and trauma expert, explained that trauma often distorts our perception, overwhelming our systems and forcing us into a crisis state. “What happened to your son—this freakish deadly infection—intensified feelings of losing control,” she noted. “Now, with COVID, you’re facing another freakish deadly infection, so it’s natural for your survival instincts to kick in again.”
In the early days after our return from the hospital, I masked my lingering feelings of helplessness by trying to control what I could, meticulously scheduling my son’s naps and tracking every ounce of milk he consumed. However, my anxiety was palpable; my jaw was clenched, my shoulders tight with tension, and my stomach a twisted knot of nausea. My husband and I took turns sleeping, but sleep often eluded me, and I had been prescribed a sedative to help me rest. My baby’s cries jolted me awake in the early hours, flooding me with adrenaline. Each day felt like a battle for survival.
Amid COVID, my feelings of fear and vulnerability intensified, sending my system into overdrive. I began sleeping 10-12 hours each night, only to wake feeling exhausted and numb. I realized I hadn’t truly healed from the immense trauma and PTSD I had experienced seven years ago, not completely, because I had never fully confronted it.
Difficult emotions can become trapped in our bodies if we don’t allow ourselves to process them. By suppressing pain, we cling to our past trauma. To start the healing process, it’s beneficial to reassess the current situation and revisit the feelings tied to the original trauma. Dr. Brenner advised, “Acknowledge the feeling,” and suggested reframing my perspective: “Yes, I may feel similar emotions, but the situation is different. I had no control the first time; do I have more control this time? Is this situation different? What do I know to be true? My son is older now, more is known about this illness, I know there are treatments available, and I’m not alone.”
Dr. Brenner added, “This kind of reframing can be challenging, even with support, but it’s crucial for understanding the powerful emotions at play.”
Taking Dr. Brenner’s advice to heart, I wrote a letter to my seven-years-younger self:
Dear Me, the mama who nearly lost her baby, I know you’re struggling, and I’m sorry I didn’t show up for you when you needed me. When your soul ached for warmth, I left you out in the cold. When you were hurt—no, shattered—I refused to acknowledge your pain. When you needed to talk, I silenced you, pushing you further away. I am so sorry. I am here now. I’m ready to feel your pain and help you heal. Mama, you’re going to be okay. I am going to be okay.
Reflecting on my son’s current health helps put the past into perspective. I’ve begun to excavate the lingering trauma buried deep within me, finally acknowledging the pain of my past and validating the feelings I had set aside to survive. I’ve opened my heart to self-compassion and empathy, which I had previously shut myself off from. I’ve removed the glass, and I’m beginning to heal.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt account, a mother reflects on her harrowing experience nearly losing her newborn son to a MRSA infection shortly after birth. As she navigates the trauma of the situation, she discovers her PTSD resurfacing during the COVID pandemic. By recognizing her emotions and embracing self-compassion, she begins to heal from past wounds while advocating for awareness and support for parents facing similar challenges.