Polaroids

I didn't bring a camera when we first came to the heart unit, but this kind nurse ran off to get a polaroid camera.

Tough news.

When we finally arrived at the hospital in Gothenburg, we looked up the mother & baby unit as the midwife in Borås told us to do. Now afterwards, I realise that perhaps it had not been so wise to take the car, in the state we were. The passenger seat folded to lying posstion for my wife to stand the pain, and myself with a focus on the road equivalent to a blood alcohol content of half a per cent on the alco meter. But it seemed such a hazzle to have the car left behind in Borås. We were just going for a quick check at the hospital i Gothenburg, weren't we?

Staff at Queen Silvias Hospital's M&C unit welcomed us with the head tilted to one side saying things like "Oh it is you, ooh, come here dear and we'll help see what we can do." We got a room and were offered some food.
Don't think we had much to eat at all, to be honest. We only wanted to see our child. "It's quite a distance to walk, I'm going to organize with a wheelchair," said a helpful midwife.

After a five minute safari in the underground corridors, we rolled in to the children's cardiac unit at Queen Silvia Children's Hospital. We were shown in to room three, the department's 24h guarded room, where three children's cardiologs (child heart specialists) was investigating Abbes heart, with an ultrasound machine. He was connected to so many wires and hoses that I hardly saw the small body behind all the equipment. They spoke a language that certainly was for the most part Swedish, yet was not possible to understand for us. But the focused tone of their conversation gave a hint of a moment of truth.

– Uh, we'll have to sit down in peace and quiet with you a little later and talk about your sons heart condition eh… you have understood that he has a congenital heart defect, haven't you? said one of cardiologes.

Smack! Just like that. Just what we didn't want to hear. The room was spinning and panic filled my body. "Erh...no," I managed to say. "Or, should I say yes, I think we're starting to realize it now," I stuttered. He couldn't of course know what information we had received or not before. We just stepped into the room. I don't blame him, not at all. To be honest, I don't know if there is would have been any other way to find out about it, that had been better. Frankly, I don't think there is a good way to learn that your newborn has a heart defect.

The neonatal fog.

From the neonatal unit I honestly don't remember much. I cannot say how long we were there. Could have been four hours, but just as well thirty minutes. I tried to comfort but without understanding what happened, why we suddenly found ourselves in a chaos. They made a heap of tests. Lung X-ray, blood pressure and a whole series of blood tests, to rule out the possibility that the low oxygen saturation was caused by an infection. By this time Abbe got oxygen continuously. He also had a needle in one of his veins on his head where he received prostaglandin. It is possible that they explained why, but I cannot remember understanding any of it just then.

– We have excluded this and this (can not remember what they said) and now only remains to check the heart, so he has to go to Queen Silvia’s Children's Hospital in Gothenburg. There's already an ambulance ready and waiting for him downstairs, and "nurse so and so" will go with him, so you don't need to be worried.
- Eh ... all right, I stuttered and we saw the little bed roll out of the room surrounded by staff.

Control and chaos.

Finally it's time. It is our turn to step in to the paediatrician who had the honour to do the round at the mother & baby unit. She examines and pinches him, just as it should be. She looks and listens. But she kind of gets stuck a bit with the stethoscope on Abbes chest, looking thoughtful and concerned. She listens and moves it forward and back.

At the same time I can see the nurse who made the screening test, eager to hand over the envelope with its so far secret results to the doctor. "Hmm, I hear some murmur from the heart," said the doctor. "But it doesn't need to be anything to worry about," she hastened to add. The nurse with the envelope cannot stay longer, but hands over the information. Abbe had an oxygen saturation of 48% in his blood when the test was made. Normal is 100%.

"We have to ask the neonatal intensive care unit to examine him closer," said paediatrician. I – who did not understand the seriousness yet - thinking that they are probably going to tell us when the time comes. But suddenly I find myself half running after a nurse through the corridors of Borås hospital with my newborn son in my arms. A nurse is pushing my wife, who can barely stand because of the pain from the operation, in a wheelchair. Everything happens so incredibly fast.

Something's wrong.

I hurry back to the room to not be late for the medical check-up 36 hours after birth. That's when they check if everything is as it should, in order to send people home as soon as possible. I know it sounds a little querulous, and a little cynical, but for me this has become an incredibly important symbol of that something is wrong with the savings in health care.

I dance in with a bouquet of flowers and look forward to proudly carry the little boy in to the doctor. My wife looks pale. She has been feeling very bad after the operation, but this is something else, that I notice directly. "There's something wrong with him," she said. "Noooo, why do you say that?", I replied in the belief that she felt so worn down after the birth that she couldn't cope more.

It turned out that in our region they were doing a screening test. They measure the oxygen content in the blood of small babies before the medical examination, to see whether that can detect hidden heart defects earlier. That's what a nurse had done just before I came back from my lunch. But she did not grasp the odd data. They were so low that she redid the test several times.

"Well, she probably must have done something wrong," I tried to calm, while my own concerns came creeping up on me.

What you see is what you get?

Tired and happy after a couple of long but enchanted days, I looked at my wife and our new family member. He’s sleeping, and she appears to need that too. Now it was about thirty-five hours ago that I heard that precious baby cry, behind the green curtain. "I'll pop out and grab something to eat" I said. Apart from the bed to sleep in, us fathers get breakfast, but not lunch. BB [in Swedish short for mother & baby unit] – Bed and Breakfast, I thought to my self with a smile. I ran down and bought flowers and some sweets in the kiosk outside. A sloppy burger in the hospital's newly built cafeteria goes down as gourmet food, and I took the opportunity to call work and tell them about the miracle. "Did all go well?" a colleague asked. "Sure. The mother is okay under the circumstances and the baby is so cute. Ten fingers, ten toes," I chirp cheerfully.

Happily ignorant.

Born in Borås

Just about two days ago we had rolled in to the operating theatre to deliver Abbe by caesarean. Since his big brother came to the world after a really hard marathon delivery - which also ended with caesarean - the doctors had promised to cancel the attempts early if it didn't start by itself this time. Said and done, my wife struggled for a few hours, but when nothing seemed to help, we ended up in the operating theatre. Lots of people in the room, green clothes and hairnets (despite my two millimeters long hair do), baby scream, "it's a boy" and the mandatory cutting of the umbilical cord. Perhaps even more symbolic with a caesarean than normal childbirth, but still.

Actually, there is a big advantage with caesarean, at least for us fathers. We get that first trembling hour with the baby, just to ourselves. The mother is being sewn up and sorted out. I mean, she has just gone through a fairly large surgery.

So there I sat. Proud as a rooster with a tray of sandwiches, tea, juice, Swedish flag and a compilation CD they apparently give to new parents. On the tray was also a small sign with facts and figures. Born: March 16 at 11.18 pm. Weight: 3900 grams. Length: 50.5 cm.

Filled with that total happiness that only newborn children can give you, I was looking in awe at my little baby boy. He's so fine.

But. He seems a little tired.

From the beginning.

We sat quiet in the car from Borås to Gothenburg, my wife and I. After days of rain, the sun was shining and dazzled me a little, as I drove. None of us dared to say anything. The silence was loud. All thoughts fought for space in my head. "Is it something serious? Perhaps it is just something he'll grow out of. No, I know, it is probably just a routine check. But, why did he leave in an ambulance? Why couldn't they even wait for us? Is he alive?" It was all spinning. I don’t know if I was in shock. No, this was some sort of vacuum before the shock. A vacuum.

-- He looks a little like an Abbe, I said.
-- Mmm, perhaps we should call him that? It's quite nice.
-- Mmm. Shall we name him Abbe then?
-- Yes.

We had talked about the name at some point earlier, mostly for fun. But it was a while ago now, and we had dismissed it as a nickname for Albert. But we didn't want Albert. Then Alfred is better. But then of course, the nick will be Affe. Other names had therefore become main favourites. Abbe would have to remain the cool character with green hair in that Swedish kids program on the telly, and not the name of our newborn child, our second son. But there in the car, in the vacuum, it suddenly felt just right. Abbe will do, it suits him.

It was like a kind of emergency baptism. We didn't say it just then, and actually never after that either. But I am sure we had the same thoughts. He must have a name.

Just in case.