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He's our little superman

Our boy needed all his powers


Published by: Polly Taylor
Published on: 21st April 2011

The baby monitor on the kitchen table crackled, and a faint grizzle drifted through the speaker. In seconds, my five-year-old son Fletcher was on his feet.
‘Harrison’s awake!’ he beamed, grabbing the bottle of formula I’d made and racing ahead of me.
Bless him. Since I’d had his baby brother a month earlier he’d doted on him, listening out for him on the baby monitor and helping with his feeds. We’d got into a little routine now, so I lifted Harrison into my arms and Fletcher held the bottle to his lips.
But he wouldn’t take it.
‘Why isn’t Harrison hungry?’ Fletcher asked, disappointed.
‘I’m not sure,’ I frowned.
Worried, I dropped Fletcher at playschool and called my midwife Alan. He agreed we should get him checked out. But while waiting at Basildon Hospital with my husband Richard, I wondered if I was over-reacting. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I sighed. ‘He’s probably just…’
Suddenly, Harrison went floppy in my arms, his skin turned ashen. ‘Oh my God!’ I cried. ‘Help!’
Hospital staff whisked him off to a resuscitation room, an oxygen mask placed over his mouth.‘What’s happening?’ I panicked, as nurses inserted a drip into the back of his tiny hand.
This morning he hadn’t wanted his bottle, now the room was a blur of white coats and bleeping machines – my baby lying helpless in the middle of it all.
Finally, a doctor took us to one side. ‘Harrison has some kind of infection,’ he said. ‘We’re looking after him as best we can while we figure out what it is.’
‘But he’s going to be okay?’ I asked.
‘We need to transfer him to Great Ormond Street Hospital for further tests,’ he said.
We followed after Harrison in the ambulance. By the time we arrived, the poor mite was hooked up to a ventilator and put in an isolation room until doctors could diagnose him.
While my mum Jill, 54, took care of Fletcher, Richard and me dressed in protective scrubs and mask, stood by Harrison’s bedside. This morning, I’d held him, now I couldn’t even touch him. ‘Mummy’s here,’ I whispered, tears prickling my eyes.
Staring at the tube in his mouth, the machine beside him, I felt sick – right now they were the only things keeping him alive. How could doctors fix him when they didn’t know what was wrong?
Luckily, the following morning, they had a diagnosis. ‘Harrison has Group B Strep,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s a blood infection, which has developed into meningitis.’
‘Meningitis?’ I gasped.
When I’d been told he had an infection, I’d assumed it’d be something they’d cure as soon as they knew what it was.
Meningitis… didn’t that kill?
‘We’re giving him antibiotics,’ the doctor went on. ‘But he’s in an extremely critical condition. He really needs to fight now.’
For the next three days we sat at his bedside willing him to do just that, while Mum brought Fletcher to the hospital to visit his baby brother. ‘Harrison’s poorly,’ I explained. ‘But these tubes are giving him medicine.’
‘Can he come home soon?’ he asked sadly. ‘I miss him.’
My heart broke. ‘He misses you too,’ I said. ‘But he can’t come home until he’s better.’
‘I’ll make him better,’ Fletcher shrugged, sitting down. He tried everything – telling him funny stories in silly voices, singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star…. ‘He’s not waking up,’ he sighed when visiting hour was over.
‘He will soon,’ I promised, hugging him tight. I tried not to think about losing Harrison, I tried not to imagine the pain, or breaking the news to Fletcher.
Still, it seemed inevitable.
The next day, Harrison had a fit. Then another. His tiny body was rocked by seizures every few hours, putting enormous pressure on his brain.
‘We’re going to put him into a drug-induced coma,’ doctors decided.
‘A coma?’ I gulped. ‘But what if he never wakes up again?’
‘It’s the only way his brain will have a chance to recover,’ the doctor added.
‘Harrison’s a fighter,’ soothed Richard. ‘But we have to do everything we can to help him.’
There was no guarantee he’d come out of this battle victorious, though. Not even if he did wake up… ‘The damage caused by Harrison’s illness is irreversible,’ the doctor explained.
It felt like a punch to my soul as he carried on talking.‘Even if he pulls through, he won’t be able to do anything for himself,’ he said. ‘He won’t walk or talk, and he’ll need feeding through a tube.’
So, if our son survived, he’d be a prisoner in his own body. He’d never tear about with his school friends, or play footie with Fletcher. The thought of him being in pain, but unable to tell us, was too much for me to bear.
‘You should seriously consider what kind of life he’d have,’ the doctor continued. ‘You need to decide whether to turn off his life support machine.’
I was totally shell-shocked. Were we really going to have to decide whether Harrison lived or died?
‘I don’t want our son to have that life,’ I sobbed to Richard. ‘It wouldn’t be fair.’
He nodded, tears in his own eyes. ‘It’d be selfish,’ he choked.
It was heartbreaking but, the following morning, we gave doctors permission to turn off his life support. They’d bring him round from his coma for a final MRI, then we’d be taken to a private room to say goodbye.
‘I want to hold him while he goes to sleep,’ I insisted, my heart breaking. Family and friends arrived to support us. Doctors stopping the medicine so he could open his eyes one last time… The ventilator made a strange noise.
‘Harrison’s breathing by himself!’ the doctor gasped. ‘He’s taken the decision out of your hands!’
We’d chosen to let him go, but Harrison had decided to fight. His brain might’ve been damaged, but his will to survive was stronger than we’d realised.
‘Keep fighting, darling,’ I begged – and he did. The next day, he seemed stronger, defying the doctor’s expectations.
But there were his other health problems to think of.
As I walked into his room, I couldn’t help feeling sad about that. Harrison was blind, deaf, would never walk…
Hang on, was it my imagination, or were his bright blue eyes following me?! ‘Richard,’ I gasped. ‘He can see!’
We waved at him, and his eyes went from me to his dad and back again. He’d dodged another disaster.
Days later, Harrison jumped at a loud noise. His hearing hadn’t been affected either!
It was like one miracle after another and, just two weeks later, we were taking him home.
‘Harrison!’ Fletcher cried, giving him a kiss. ‘You’re all better.’
Now Harrison’s one and thriving. He babbles non-stop, and he’s even walking on his own!
We’ve been told we won’t know what the damage is, if any, until he’s older. But as far as we’re concerned, having him here is miracle enough.
Kelly Graeme, 34, Wickford, Essex