A chronological collection of writing during my son’s first fortnight of life, in Neonatal ICU.
Imagine watching your 6-day old son have a tube forcibly inserted down his throat, into his lungs, before having mucus and secretions withdrawn manually.
Imagine his arm spasming with every push, his mouth forced open with a plastic brace tied across the rear of his head.
Imagine his quaking body and curling toes, his silent protestations and bandaged nose, another tube in one nostril drawing substances from his stomach.
Imagine his eyes, glued shut with fatigue and morphine, struggling to open as well-meaning hands pummel his chest.
Imagine seeing his signs of life digitised in primary colours, fluctuate in real time.
Imagine seeing him retch and stretch in seeming distress, bare chested, breathing in flaps, bursts and jets of activity.