One final push and your promise will be born. These words ran through my head as I sat quietly in God’s presence. Alone on my bed, on a cold, misty morning in Ireland, I was definitely not pregnant. At least, not in the natural. I had arrived here ten weeks before, seeking rest and recuperation after being a temporary safe care parent to nine babies over the course of two years in Cape Town, my home.
At this point in my journey, my time away had already been life-changing and I knew I needed a vision for what I would do when I returned home. I am also a doula and have repeated those very words to over sixty moms in the throes of childbirth… just one more push. Those who have laboured and birthed their babies know that there is often a time in birth, in the very final stretch, in which exhaustion and self-doubt speak louder than reality. That is when I lock eyes with the mom, cup her head in my hands, and say slowly and confidently: you can do this, you are doing this, just one final push and your baby will be born.
What these words meant for me, as a single woman stepping off the plane and back into my usual life a few days later, was less clear. Still, I felt assured that my next season was going to be a good one, with new life emerging after some possible pain and discomfort: one final push and my promise would be born. What promise exactly? This was also not apparent to me at the time. There were so many promises that had yet to be fulfilled! But looking back, I am so glad I had those words to hold onto. God the Father, my ever-present doula, cupping my face in his hands, and speaking words of strength over me for the storm I was about to face…
Just a week later, I was sitting at a coffee shop chatting to a prospective temporary safe-care parent when one of the social workers I work with called to ask if I would take a newborn baby into my care. The decision needed to be made immediately. After asking a few questions and learning more about the baby, I said yes. Such a simple word: yes. But like a small hinge on a giant floodgate, it would prove to change my life and story forever.
That day, I entered the hospital with a willing heart, a nappy bag packed with the essentials, and a car seat in tow. Soon a tiny baby, just three days old, with porcelain skin and fine features was placed in my arms and discharged into my care.
I affectionately called him Tiny Dude. The next few days were a blur, averaging three hours of broken sleep a night, both of us getting to know one another while navigating feeding challenges and what seemed like pain whenever I changed his nappy. Then after a seismic poonami up the front of his babygrow, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I’d changed countless newborn nappies, but this was different. Still, I was comforted by the fact that he was healthy on discharge, and other than the cries when changing his nappy he seemed to be a contented baby.
Despite being in a sleep-deprived stupor, Holy Spirit woke me on day eleven of Tiny Dude’s life and said check his bottom. I got up, changed his nappy, and on closer inspection saw that he didn’t have an anus, my poor boy had been pooing through his penis. Shocked by this, I immediately messaged the social worker asking what I needed to do and sent a message to a friend who is a doctor. Then I went about my day, leading antenatal and postnatal exercise classes in the morning, unaware of the urgency of the matter. In the afternoon a decision was made to go to Red Cross Children’s Hospital.
The next 24 hours were a whirlwind. After two hours of waiting we were the first to be seen by the doctor on night shift, who just happened to be my friend. This was no coincidence, rather God’s kindness held me tenderly as I navigated these treacherous steps. It was late at night by the time Tiny Dude was admitted to hospital. The findings revealed an anorectal malformation necessitating a consultation by a surgeon. Following the consultation with the surgeons (one of whom I knew), the complexity of the diagnosis became clear when it was identified as part of the VACTERL association. VACTERL association is a condition where a baby is born with several related birth defects that affect different parts of the body. The name ‘VACTERL’ is an acronym for the areas most often affected (Vertebrae, Anus, Cardiac, Trachea, Esophagus, Renal, and Limbs). Tears streamed down my face as the surgeon explained that Tiny Dude needed emergency ostomy surgery and that over the next few days, a battery of tests would be performed to ascertain which parts of his body were affected. The surgeon explained that not all babies with VACTERL have problems in every area and that after the tests were conducted specialists in each field would create a care plan moving forward.
I felt completely hopeless and moved from rage to indignation that he had been discharged into my care as a ‘healthy baby’. This was medical malpractice that could have cost Tiny Dude his life! Blood needed to be drawn, blood pressure taken, and a catheter and IV line inserted. We finally settled into the high care ward at 3 am, physically and emotionally exhausted.
After a sleepless night, Tiny Dude was wheeled into the surgical waiting room. I looked up and saw a familiar face, another friend who happened to be one of the anaesthetists working that day. Another cord of God’s kindness so obviously displayed. She embraced me, introduced me to the surgical team assigned to Tiny Dude’s surgery, and then instructed me to return home to shower and rest until she called me to say the surgery was done. Relief flooded my bones, kissing Tiny Dude on his cheek and hugging him one last time I left the hospital.
The wait felt endless. The call finally came. Tiny Dude was back where he belonged, with me, sporting a stoma bag. The registrar paediatric surgeon shared how she had never seen a baby survive undiagnosed for so long and that the surgery was longer than expected due to all the fecal matter in his body. She then glanced at his chart and looked at me with a somber expression. Your child is a miracle, she said. I see he has been on expressed breastmilk. Had he been on formula he would have died.
I was unaware of the decision I made to give him my friend, Sam’s expressed breastmilk. I know that breastmilk is liquid gold. Sam and I had a catch-up over tea a few days before Tiny Dude was born when she shared that she had a freezer full of breastmilk that she wished to donate. Six days later Tiny Dude was drinking her milk. He was the first of my ten temporary safe care babies to drink breastmilk. That one conversation and seemingly simple decision saved his life. And added so much richness and joy to mine.
Today, he is no longer a foster baby. He is mine – and I am his!
One final push, and my promise was indeed born.
