My NICU, SCBU, and Pre-Eclampsia Story

My son’s birth was not calm.

It was not planned.

And it was not gentle.

I developed pre-eclampsia during my pregnancy—on top of already living with type 2 diabetes, which had originally begun as gestational diabetes in my first pregnancy. My body was under immense strain, and things changed quickly. What started as monitoring turned into urgency. Decisions were made rapidly. Alarms sounded. Faces became serious.

I was told I needed an emergency caesarean section.

There was no time to mentally prepare. No time to process what was happening. One moment I was pregnant, the next I was being rushed into surgery, terrified for my life and my baby’s.

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Born and rushed

When my son was born, he was immediately taken from me.

I did not get to hold him.
I did not get to kiss him.
I did not get to say goodbye.

Because of my diabetes and the effects of pre-eclampsia, my son was born with low blood sugar. I, too, experienced dangerously low blood sugar after the caesarean. We were both unwell, both vulnerable—and yet we were separated.

For eight long hours, my baby was gone.

I lay in recovery after major abdominal surgery, weak, shaking, and emotionally shattered, knowing my newborn was somewhere else. The separation was not just physical—it was deeply traumatic. That immediate removal affected my recovery in ways no one warned me about.

The pain of the caesarean was real, but the pain of not knowing where my baby was, whether he was okay, and why I wasn’t allowed to be with him was far worse.

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NICU, SCBU, and a Week That Felt Endless

My son was admitted to NICU and SCBU because of his low blood sugar. What should have been a bonding period became a medical one. Instead of holding my baby, I watched him through incubators and monitors.

He stayed there for about a week.

A week filled with fear, guilt, and relentless self-blame. I blamed my body. I blamed my diabetes. I blamed the pre-eclampsia. Even though I knew none of it was my fault, the weight of responsibility sat heavily on me.

Each day felt endless. Each night was worse. I returned to a bed without my baby, hearing other newborns cry while my arms remained empty. The emotional isolation was overwhelming.

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When Feeding Became Another Battle

Just when we thought the worst might be over, another challenge emerged.

My son would not feed.

Something that should have come naturally became another hurdle. He was placed on tube feeding, and what was expected to be short-term stretched into weeks.

For an entire month, my baby was tube-fed.

I watched machines deliver nourishment to the child my body had already failed to support in the way I wanted. I felt powerless, broken, and invisible. I questioned my worth as a mother. I questioned my body’s ability to care for my child.

Only after that long month was he finally able to feed well enough for us to bring him home.

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The Mental Aftermath No One Talks About

Pre-eclampsia nearly took my life.
The emergency caesarean saved us both.
NICU and SCBU saved my son.

But mentally, I did not come out unscathed.

The trauma followed me home. The anxiety did not stop. I became extremely mentally unwell, struggling with intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, guilt, and a constant sense of fear. I grieved the birth I never had. I grieved the moments that were stolen from me.

The first cuddle.
The first feed.
The first hours together.

These losses are invisible to many—but they are deeply real to the mothers who live them.

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Survival, Love, and the Strength We Never Asked For

Despite everything—pre-eclampsia, diabetes, an emergency caesarean, NICU, SCBU, low blood sugar, feeding tubes—my son is here.

And so am I.

This experience reshaped me. It broke parts of me, but it also revealed a strength I never wanted to discover this way. My story is not just about medical complications—it is about trauma, survival, and the lasting mental impact of being separated from your child at birth.

If you are a parent who has walked through NICU or SCBU, or faced pre-eclampsia, emergency surgery, or prolonged feeding struggles, please know this:

You are not weak.
You are not failing.
And you are not alone.

Your story matters.
Your pain matters.
And your love—especially forged through adversity—is immeasurable.