“Your baby isn’t well enough to stay here. We’re going to transfer him to the PICU for more intensive care.”
As I tried to grasp the nurse’s words, a wave of panic washed over me. I struggled to breathe. Just moments before, my newborn son had been rushed into the hospital’s pediatric unit. He was lethargic and had a dangerously high fever of 101.3 (any temperature above 100.4 in newborns is treated as an emergency). They quickly took him away for a spinal tap.
At just five days old, my baby’s condition was rapidly worsening; he was having difficulty breathing, his heart rate was soaring, and his blood pressure was plummeting. In shock, I found it hard to comprehend this alarming situation. My little one was fighting for his life. In my peripheral vision, I saw my husband collapse onto the floor, overcome with desperate sobs, and I too fell, silently crumbling beside him. We were helpless as medical professionals swarmed around our son, now the sickest patient in the hospital.
While doctors struggled to determine the cause of our baby’s sudden decline, a priest entered our room, seeking permission to pray over our son (or possibly read his last rites). Despite our repeated protests, we eventually consented. That day is etched in my memory.
The whirlwind of traumatic events that followed plunged me into a deep despair I never want to relive. We willed our baby to survive over the next two days as he received oxygen, fluids, and treatment for severe jaundice. Finally, a urine culture revealed that a deadly MRSA infection was responsible for our son’s sudden, fierce illness, leading to a course of two potent antibiotics.
Doctors explained that the bacteria had entered through an open, inflamed wound from his circumcision, spreading throughout his body and causing extensive harm. Thankfully, MRSA had not invaded his blood or spinal fluid; he was going to live. Yet, every moment was critical. A severe case of epiglottitis had nearly obstructed his airway, compromised his voice, and put his ability to breathe at risk.
The circumcision site had turned black with necrosis, as had his umbilical cord stump. Disturbingly, no one could tell us when, or if, they would heal. Septic lesions appeared on my baby’s abdomen, groin, and tongue, making breastfeeding an infection risk for me. So, I pumped every two hours around the clock. Stress caused my milk supply to dwindle to a mere trickle, but I clung to my lactation consultant’s mantra, “Breast is Best,” and refused to give up.
During our three-week hospital stay, I fought to keep despair from enveloping my mind. With every needle prick my son endured, I cried out in pure anguish. Days dragged on painfully as we waited anxiously to see if our child would face any lasting effects from the infection.
I began to resent the constant stream of residents who entered our room, examining our son as if he were an exotic specimen. Nurses kindly arranged for me to sleep in a vacant section of the hospital, but after a few hours, I would awaken drenched and cold, my body recovering from a severe case of mastitis on top of giving birth. After changing my sweat-soaked sheets and clothes, I would painstakingly attach my breasts to the pump, one at a time, watching blood-tinged droplets collect in the tube until there was nothing left but air. I lathered lanolin over my raw, cracked nipples, caught a few more fitful hours of sleep, and dragged myself back to my son’s hospital room, utterly drained.
Surrounded by people, I’ve never felt more alone.
Although my son made a full recovery, I struggled with PTSD for two more years. The weight of this trauma overwhelmed my fragile body and mind, leaving me in a constant state of fight or flight. I thought I had fully healed after seven years, but then COVID hit, shattering the sense of control I had managed to build. The uncertainty of the future caused my sense of security to evaporate, triggering a resurgence of traumatic emotions. Instead of confronting my feelings, I had buried them, and now they were back with a vengeance.
Avoidance, or suppressing emotional pain, is a hallmark of PTSD, and anything resembling the original trauma can trigger those repressed emotions to resurface. Dr. Helene Brenner, a psychologist and trauma expert, explained, “What happened to your son, this deadly infection, this life-threatening event, created intense feelings of being out of control. Now here’s COVID, also a deadly infection, so naturally, your brain’s survival mechanism would be activated.”
In the early days after we returned home from the hospital, I masked my lingering feelings of helplessness by controlling what I could, meticulously timing my son’s naps and logging every ounce of milk he consumed. Yet, my persistent anxiety was apparent in my body: my jaw was tightly clenched, my shoulders perpetually tense, and my stomach twisted in nauseated knots. My husband and I slept in shifts, but sleep eluded me, leading to a prescription sedative. The sound of my baby’s cries jolted me awake in the early hours, sending fresh waves of adrenaline coursing through me. I lived in a constant state of fear and unease, trapped in survival mode.
As COVID unfolded, my fear and vulnerability intensified, pushing my system into overdrive. I began sleeping 10-12 hours a night, only to wake up feeling exhausted and numb. I realized that I hadn’t fully healed from the extreme trauma and PTSD I experienced seven years ago because I had never allowed myself to confront it.
Difficult emotions can become trapped in our bodies if we fail to process them. By suppressing the pain, we cling to past trauma. Dr. Brenner recommended that to initiate the healing process, we should reassess the current situation and revisit our feelings from the time of trauma. “Acknowledge the feeling,” she advised, suggesting I reframe my perspective: “Yes, I may feel the same way, but this is a different situation. I had no control the first time, but do I have more control now? What do I know to be true? My son is older, there’s more knowledge about this illness, treatments are available, and I’m not alone.”
Implementing Dr. Brenner’s advice, I wrote a letter to my past self:
To Me, the mother who almost lost her baby, I know you’re struggling, and I’m sorry I didn’t support you when you needed me. When your soul ached for warmth, I left you out in the cold. When you were hurt – shattered – I wouldn’t acknowledge your pain. When you needed to talk, I silenced you, refusing to listen. When you felt so cruelly alone, I pushed you further away. I’m so sorry. I’m here now. I’m ready to feel your pain and help you heal. You will be okay. I will be okay.
Reflecting on my son’s current health allows me to see the past in perspective. I’ve begun to dig up the residual trauma buried within me, finally acknowledging the pain of my past and validating the feelings I had previously sidelined to survive. I’ve opened my heart to the self-compassion and empathy I desperately needed but had previously shut myself off from. I’ve removed the glass from the wound, and I’m starting to heal.
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Summary: This heartfelt account shares the harrowing experience of nearly losing a newborn to a MRSA infection and how the trauma of that event resurfaced during the COVID-19 pandemic. The author reflects on their journey through PTSD and the importance of acknowledging and processing past pain for healing. With insights from a trauma expert, the narrative emphasizes the need for self-compassion and understanding in overcoming emotional struggles.
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