Blaire’s Journey – Our Month in NICU

At 37 weeks pregnant, I was suddenly told I needed to deliver early because Blaire’s movements had slowed and she wasn’t happy. I was excited that I’d finally meet her, but underneath was a deep fear: why wasn’t she moving, was she okay?

During the birth I remember extra nurses rushing in. I waited nervously on the table as I realised the doctor was counting out Blaire’s slow heartbeat. I kept asking my partner what was happening – as if he would know. We both just waited, terrified. My midwife was exceptional, constantly reassuring us and keeping us in the loop.

Blaire arrived at 2 pm, but she wasn’t crying. She was resuscitated and intubated to help her breathe. I only got the quickest glimpse of her before she was whisked off to NICU. My midwife took photos for me – I clung to those in recovery.

Sitting in recovery, I almost felt happy at first, sending messages that Blaire had been born. Looking back, I think I was in denial about how much support she needed. I imagined she’d be out in 24 hours. I didn’t see her again until 9 pm.

Being wheeled into the NICU corridor that night was intimidating – the smell of disinfectant, the constant beeping of machines. Even now, hearing those machines again gives me a wave of anxiety. Blaire looked so different to what I’d imagined – swollen and “fluidy,” almost unrecognisable to me. All I wanted to do was scoop her up and put her back inside where I could keep her safe.

The next day I learned there were different NICU “rooms,” and that moving up a room meant you were closer to going home. Blaire started in Room 1, which meant we weren’t leaving soon. She also had jaundice and needed breathing support.

Five days later she was strong enough for Room 4, on just an NG tube. I felt hopeful. But on day 8 she took a step back and needed high-flow oxygen again. She went back to room 3. Those ups and downs were hard.

Room 3 is where most of my NICU memories live. It’s where I had heartfelt talks with the nurses who cared for Blaire as if she were their own. It’s where she first showed interest in me, her dad, and her brothers. Her first bath – still on high flow – was a bit of a juggle, but she enjoyed it. Her first breastfeed was such a milestone; I’d been waiting so long and was so ready to be done with that pump!

Every night I left around 8 pm to walk back to Ronald McDonald House before it got dark. Sometimes Ants was with me, but often he had to return home, four hours away. I’ll never forget the ache of walking out of the hospital without my baby – it was my hardest moment.

I watched Blaire’s monitors constantly, often whispering, “Come on girl, stop being so dramatic, your brothers want you home!” I met other NICU mums and still wonder how they’re doing now. I felt torn between sitting with Blaire and spending time with my boys, who I hardly saw. When visiting closed and my boys couldn’t even see their sister after travelling to see us, the guilt was crushing.

Eventually we moved to Room 5 – the home-stretch room – and finally to the precious “Mummy-and-Me” room. After a month in hospital, I finally got to sleep beside my daughter. I didn’t care if I was up all night; it was everything I had longed for every time I’d had to leave her at night.

Taking Blaire home was special and a little scary. I walked her back to Ronald McDonald House in the pram, and we stayed there for two nights before driving home. I hardly slept – I was too excited just to be with her. Leaving the hospital without monitors or nurses nearby was daunting, but it was the moment we’d been waiting for.

Blaire’s journey is shaped by more than her NICU stay – she has Noonan syndrome (RIT1 gene), which can affect her heart and development. Knowing this makes me even more grateful for how strong she was in those early days, and for the incredible care she received.

The NICU team was extraordinary. Some nurses still come to mind often – their kindness, calmness, and skill made all the difference.

Our month in NICU taught me strength and how to celebrate every tiny milestone. To any parent sitting beside an incubator right now: you’re stronger than you know, and your baby is doing their best. There will be a day you finally get to walk out those doors together.