The quiet that breaks you
It all began earlier than we ever expected. Our little one wasn’t due until July, but 23 May 2024 had other plans. I woke to Michelle’s scream — panicked, raw — “I’m bleeding!” she cried. My heart stopped.
In an instant, I flew out of bed, phone in hand, dialling 999. The words blurred together as I handed her the phone and threw some clothes on, knowing the ambulance would be coming fast.
World-spinning blur
The next moments are a haze of flashing lights and rushing corridors. One minute, we were home; the next, at the hospital, swept into delivery. Doctors, nurses, and an anaesthetist surrounded us, their voices calm but urgent as they passed me forms to sign. Risks, percentages, procedures – all blurred together. I remember gripping Michelle’s hand, trying to stay steady while the world spun around us.
Then came the quiet that breaks you. Our boy Harrison arrived two months early – so tiny, so fragile – before being whisked away to NICU. He disappeared behind swinging doors with an oxygen mask covering most of his face. I froze, torn between staying with Michelle or following him. She looked at me, exhausted but firm. “Go,” she said softly. “Be with our boy.” So I went.
The NICU was a world of soft beeps, glowing lights, and whispered reassurance. I watched Harrison through the glass, under that blue UV light, too afraid even to touch him at first. Every movement, every breath felt monumental. We watched like hawks, counting the seconds between each rise of his chest.
“When asked how I was, I always said, “I’m fine.” The truth was, I was like a swan – calm above water, but underneath, paddling frantically just to stay afloat.”
But our boy — he had fight in him. Within days he was tugging out his Optiflow tubes, pulling at heart monitor wires, yanking out his feeding tube as if to say, “I’ve got this.” Slowly, we learned to do the same – feed him, change him, support him, love him through the wires and the fear.
I’ve never felt so disconnected from the world. Days passed in a loop of hospital corridors and constant worry. Friends faded into the background. When asked how I was, I always said, “I’m fine.” The truth was, I was like a swan — calm above water, but underneath, paddling frantically just to stay afloat. My focus was fixed on Michelle’s recovery and our son’s strength.
NICU on repeat
Once Michelle was discharged, I kept up the routine — twelve hours a day in the NICU, morning handovers to night shifts, a nod or two to another dad passing by. We rarely spoke beyond, “Alright, mate.” That was enough. The day we finally took our boy home, I could barely contain my excitement.
My feet itched with the need to go, to get us out, to begin life — our real life — together. And we did. Those first weeks at home were a blur of feeds, sleepless nights, and sheer joy.
Nearly two years on, I can finally tell this story without breaking. If you’ve walked a NICU path too, I hope you know this — your feelings are real, your strength is enough, and you’re never truly alone.
To every NICU dad out there who stands quietly by an incubator, holding everything together while breaking inside – you are not alone. Your worry, your tears, your determination – they matter. We see you, and you are enough. Every NICU story is different, but we’re all walking it together, one tiny step at a time.
Thanks to Alex for sharing Harrison’s story.