Breathing, one of those things most of us take for granted. It’s automatic, we just ‘do it’.
Until we can’t.
Sometimes help is at hand and we’re given the chance to breathe again.
Sometimes it’s not. And the final breath is taken.
And it all stops.
We’ve had nightmare experiences with our sons and their breathing.
The first ever cuddle I had with Ahren after the emergency c section, he stopped breathing.
It’s horrifying how quickly he started turning blue. His limbs gave out and just flopped.
He was gone.
After being snatched out my arms and raced across the hospital to SCBU he was brought back to us.
I treasure every breathe he takes.
Then there is Ethan, our little fighter.
His windpipe became blocked by a birthmark growing internally. I remember clearly the day his breathing deteriorated, the sounds of his struggles will haunt me forever.
Being told his windpipe was 1mm wide was horrifying, imagine trying to breath through something that small.
Eventually, after too many surgeries, close calls and heart wrenching moments he was able to breathe again without machines doing it for him.
This photo here. is of him when he came off all the machines for about the 6th time, he finally managed to breathe on his own.
These are some of the most precious breaths ever taken.
What you can’t see around his is the team of surgeons, specialists, nurses and re-sus team who were waiting to swoop in if he failed to breathe.
Watching the numbers on the monitors he was hooked up to was such a stressful time.
But he did it.
He learnt to breathe again.
Now when I watch him, and his brother, as they sleep, I can’t catch my own breathe until I see the rise and fall of their chests.