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Our Christmas Star!

Tiny Callum is a festive miracle...


Published by: Jai Breitnauer
Published on: 22 December 2011

Christmas miracles. I'd never believed in them until now...
The fairylights were looped around the room, the Santa Stop Here sign was up, and the mountain of presents were wrapped. I'd gone overboard... but it was our son Callum's first Christmas.
Sadly, we weren't decorating the tree in our cosy front room, though - we were gathered around Callum's cot in King's College Hospital in London.
‘Do you remember last Christmas?' I smiled to my husband Carl, 28.
‘When we gave our mums those little pram charms,' he grinned. ‘Told everyone we were expecting.'
I remembered the cries of ‘congratulations', and smiled bitterly. Who would have thought things would turn out like this?
No one had suspected a problem until the 20-week scan when a sonographer had spotted an abnormality. A 4D scan had confirmed it - our baby had a congenital diaphragmatic hernia, or CDH.
‘It's a large hole in the diaphragm, allowing the intestines to squash the lungs,' a doctor had explained. ‘We'll have to reconstruct the diaphragm surgically soon after birth.'
‘But the baby will survive?' I'd begged to know.
‘If you go full term and there are no other complications, your son has a 50 per cent chance,' the consultant had replied.
Our son. It was the first time we'd heard we were having a boy.
After that, I'd been scanned weekly. At 26 weeks, I'd had a dangerous procedure to drain two litres of fluid from my tummy - without it, I'd have gone into labour. At 29 weeks, I'd been admitted to King's College Hospital for complete bed rest.
Every night, Carl would lay with me, playing the song Waiting for a Star to Fall by Boy Meets Girl into my tummy. ‘He's our little star,' I'd whispered tearfully.
Despite everything, at 33 weeks, I'd gone into labour. I'd remembered our specialist's words. ‘If he goes full term, there's a 50 per cent chance he will survive...'
So this early, what chance did he have?
Carl had grabbed my hand. ‘It'll be okay,' he'd smiled weakly.
After 10 hours, I'd pushed Callum into the world. Weighing just 5lb 4oz, he'd been whisked straight to intensive care.
Eight hours later, as Carl had wheeled me on to Callum's ward, my heart broke. Bruised, covered with tubes and on life support, we couldn't even touch our tiny baby.
‘But he's here,' Carl had whispered. ‘And he's ours.'
Three days later, our tiny tot had had a five-hour operation to repair his diaphragm, using pigskin.
‘Pigskin?!' I'd gasped.
‘It's an accepted method,' the doctor had said. ‘Usually, we can sew up holes in the diaphragm, but Callum's is so big, this is the only option.'
So big?
Oh God...
‘How long does it normally take for babies to recover?' I asked the surgeon.
‘Callum's the first premature baby to survive this operation,' he admitted. ‘We just don't know.'
It hammered home just how serious this was - no one else our baby's age had got as far as him. ‘Please, let Callum survive this,' I prayed.
Someone listened - he got stronger and, at 24 days, I was allowed to hold him. By four weeks, he was off life support. At six weeks, I was allowed to dress him.
‘Mummy's little star,' I cooed, pulling on the special star babygrow I'd bought. At this rate, he'd be home for Christmas Day! For the first time, I let myself imagine it.
Just days later, though...
‘Callum's caught an infection,' said our consultant. ‘This often happens with CDH babies. He'll be fine, but won't be home for Christmas now.'
With my Christmas plans dashed, I went all-out to make things special.
So Christmas morning, we walked on to the ward in our pyjamas, just like we would have at home, and unwrapped Callum's pressies with him.
‘Merry Christmas,' I whispered, kissing my son's cheek. He looked gorgeous in a little elf outfit.
Carl took a photo and laughed. ‘He'll kill us when he's older when we show him how he was dressed!'
Later, our parents arrived, and we had Christmas lunch with the nurses in the family room. ‘Merry Christmas!' we cheered, as we pulled crackers and read out the silly jokes inside.
Callum was smiling and gurgling like any other six-month-old. If it wasn't for the tubes, you wouldn't have known he was critically ill.
But next morning, our boy wasn't well. ‘He may have another infection,' the doctor warned.
Over the next week, he was up and down. Then on the morning of New Year's Eve, we got a phone call from the ward, asking us to come straight up.
‘What's happened?!' I gasped, running in behind Carl. In front of me, two nurses were crying, and the consultant looked grave.
‘We've had to put him back on life support,' he explained. ‘I'm sorry, we'll do all we can, but there are no guarantees.' ‘No!' I cried. ‘We've come so far...'
‘And he'll bounce back!' Carl insisted. ‘He always does!'
All day, we begged Callum to pull through this. ‘You're our star, we need you.'
The clock struck midnight. From the window, we saw the fireworks on the London Eye. Ever positive, Carl recorded it on his video camera to show our boy when he got older.
Big Ben sounded over the radio. Suddenly, there was another noise, too. An alarm.
‘Carl...' I screamed. ‘It's Callum! He's stopped breathing!'
Carl spun around, dropping the camera as the room filled with doctors and nurses.
‘We're losing him!' I sobbed, as the shouts of the medical team blurred behind me. I remembered the first time I saw my son's blue eyes when he was six-days-old, that first smile at four months...
Suddenly, I felt a nurse tugging on my sleeve. ‘It's okay Faye, he's back. He's okay.'
Relief flooded through me as I bent down to kiss Callum's little head. On the radio, people were cheering for 2011, but I felt like they were cheering for us.
From that day, our little man went from strength to strength. Finally, in February this year, after spending the first 231 days of his life in hospital, while we stayed in a Ronald McDonald House Charity room, Callum was allowed home.
Yes, he was still on oxygen and being fed by tube, but at least he was finally with us.
Now Callum's one and we've seen our lovely little baby grow into a real cheeky chappy. He can't walk or talk yet, but he's always smiling and ‘bum dancing' by wiggling his tiny bottom to music.
This Christmas, we're looking forward to that big family party at last. I've been buying presents since August! Callum will be spoiled rotten. Well, he's our little star - proof that Christmas miracles really do happen!

Visit www.rmhc.org.uk and www.cdhuk.co.uk
Faye Axford, 29, Stanford-le-Hope, Essex