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The gift of cuddles

There was just one thing I wanted for Christmas...


Published by: Fiona Ford
Published on: 11th January 2011

Watching my boyfriend and me struggling to tape tinsel around our windscreen, you’d have laughed.
‘This stuff has a life of its own,’ I chuckled, unwinding it from around my leg.
‘And it gets everywhere,’ giggled Sean, picking glitter off himself.
We weren’t decorating our car, but the cab of the ambulance we drove. Sean was a paramedic, I was an ambulance technician, and we’d chosen to work over Christmas. Why? It was the only way to ease our heartache.
You see, Santa, over the last two years, I’d suffered three miscarriages and recently given birth to a stillborn baby.
When I’d fallen pregnant in February, we’d been excited about having a baby.
At 12 weeks, I’d felt confident I could put my miscarriages behind me. But at 17 weeks, our little boy, who we’d called Charlie, died – but I still had to deliver him.
So now we’d be together, but wouldn’t have to think about the little life we should have been welcoming into the world.
‘Do you think a tree would be too much?’ I asked Sean, 45.
‘Yes,’ he snorted, shaking his head. ‘I think that’s pushing it.’
Still, in the new year, I didn’t think I was pushing it when I suggested we tried again for a baby. By June, I was expecting again.
I wouldn’t get my hopes up until my first scan showed everything was fine.
‘This one looks like a jelly bean,’ the nurse laughed, as the image on the screen bounced around.
‘JB,’ I smiled. ‘That’s what we’ll call him, or her, for now.’ Over the next few weeks, JB went from strength to strength and, by 17 weeks, we were feeling pretty relaxed.
But a week later, in October, I felt a twinge.
Total panic.
‘Sean!’ I cried out.
He ran quickly down the stairs.
‘We need to get to hospital, something’s wrong!’ I sobbed.
I was rushed in for an ultrasound, and was so relieved to see our baby’s heartbeat.
‘Your baby’s fine,’ the midwife reassured us. ‘But you’re two centimetres dilated. We’re going to put a stitch in your cervix, and you’ll have to stay in.’
‘How long for?’ I asked, surprised at this.
‘Until you give birth,’ she told me gently.  ‘You need to be monitored and have complete bed rest until you go into labour which, hopefully, will be no earlier than
28 weeks.’
Even then, the baby would be two months premature, but would be able to survive.
This meant I’d have to spend at least three months in hospital, and be in over Christmas and New Year at least, but…
‘If that’s what it takes to save our jelly bean, I’m happy,’ I said.
Thankfully, Sean was able to pop in between shifts, and my mum Penny, 62, came to stay with us. Surrounded by doctors and nurses, I felt safe.
Five weeks later, on November 10, I was dozing in bed when, like a bolt from the blue, I was hit by sudden pain. Pulling back the blankets, I screamed. There was blood everywhere.
‘Somebody help me!’ I cried, as another wave of pain hit me.
Nurses surrounded me in seconds and I was hooked up to machines. Sean was by my side.
‘You’re in good hands, it’s going to be fine,’ he promised.
But a scan showed otherwise.
‘I’m afraid there’s no heartbeat,’ the doctor told us, sadly. ‘Your baby has passed away. We’ll induce you as soon as we can.’
As I was wheeled down to theatre, I was heartbroken I had to deliver yet another stillborn baby.
‘P-perhaps we can get a plot by Charlie,’ I croaked, as I was given an injection.
‘That’s a nice idea,’ Sean whispered, sadly.
As my contractions started, tears ran down my cheeks. Clutching Sean’s hand, I wanted this over.
Suddenly, Sean shouted: ‘There’s a leg! It’s moving!’
Our baby was still alive!
The room exploded into activity. It was as if every midwife in the West Midlands was battling to save our baby. But at four months premature, could they do it?
‘It’s a boy!’ the doctor cried, finally. ‘And he’s breathing.’
Me and Sean burst into tears.
‘Joseph,’ I whispered, as they took him to a side room. ‘Let’s call him Joseph Benjamin.’
‘JB!’ Sean laughed.
It was such a cute name, and Joseph had a Christmas feel to it.
Moments later, a nurse wheeled Joseph, in an incubator, to the side of my bed.
‘Can I hold him?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘He weighs just over 1lb. He’s very fragile,’ she explained. ‘We need to get him to intensive care.’
Leaning over, I held out my hand – my son’s whole body would have fitted into it – and touched his cheek.
‘Hold on for Mummy and Daddy. We love you very much,’ I whispered to him.
We spent every day over the next eight weeks sitting by Joseph’s incubator.
While children across the world wrote to Santa asking for presents, there was just one thing I wanted – to hold my son and know he would make it.
We didn’t dare buy him any Christmas presents, though. We were too scared to show him how much we loved him. ‘It’s not real until he’s home,’ I told Sean.
Expressing milk each day, I longed to pick him up, but he was connected to tubes and machines. He was so tiny, it was too dangerous. So we gave him a tiny blue teddy to snuggle up to .
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw the toy teddy was as big as Joseph.
Then on Christmas Eve, as we sat    singing Twinkle Twinkle to our little man, a nurse came over.
‘Shall we have a cuddle then?’ she grinned.
‘Y-you mean, a real cuddle?!’ I blurted out.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a proper cuddle.’
She passed Joseph to me – and made my wish come true.
He was so tiny. With his head in the crook of my arm, his feet didn’t even reach my wrist.
But, finally, I knew he was getting stronger – he was going to be okay.
I couldn’t stop grinning. ‘This is the best present ever!’
The next day, me and Sean gave him a snow globe and a little outfit.
‘Ho ho ho!’ a voice suddenly boomed behind us. It was you Santa! ‘And who’s this little man?’
‘Joseph!’ I laughed.
‘I have a special gift for you,’ you smiled, handing us a package.
‘A calendar!’ I gasped.
On the front was a tiny footprint, the size of a walnut.
‘It’s Joseph’s foot,’ smiled the nurse. ‘We made it for you.’
Three months later, Joseph was allowed home. Now, nine months on, he’s sitting up, laughing and smiling. He’s still tiny, just 13lb, and on oxygen, but he’s healthy. This year, he will sample his first Christmas dinner!
So this Christmas, Santa, I’m not writing to ask you for a gift. No, this is a thank you letter, because last year you gave me everything I wished for. And this year, I know I’ll be getting lots of Christmas cuddles from my boy.
Becky Malone, 32, Warwick