The consultant’s words hit me like a physical blow. ‘I’m afraid Spike has suffered brain damage. We won’t know how bad it is until he’s older.’ My world tilted on its axis. He was talking about my baby, my tiny Spike, lying in an incubator, fighting for his life. Just days after his birth in 2008, Spike had contracted whooping cough, a seemingly innocent cough that would leave a lasting scar on our family.
It all started with a seemingly harmless cough. I, a midwife with three other children, knew the signs of a respiratory illness. But when Spike, just 11 days old, started grunting, his breathing labored, I was told it was nothing to worry about. Two days later, his condition worsened, but again, the diagnosis was a mild respiratory infection. That night, I knew something was terribly wrong. His tiny ribcage strained with each breath, his grunts echoing in the silence of the night. We were told he had Respiratory Syncytial Virus (RSV).
My instincts told me it was more than RSV. The sound of his cough, a deep, harsh whoop, reminded me of whooping cough, the illness that had plagued my own childhood. My husband, Nicholas, and our other children also had the same cough. My persistence at the hospital finally led to a blood test, revealing a high white blood cell count, a sign of infection.
The nightmare was just beginning. Spike was rushed to the Evelina London Children’s Hospital, where the devastating diagnosis came: pertussis, the medical term for whooping cough. The ambulance ride was a blur of fear and frantic prayers. By the time we reached the hospital, Spike was unrecognizable, his body bloated from the fluids keeping him alive. The words of the consultant, ‘Your baby is probably going to die,’ echoed in my ears, a chilling prophecy of what could be.
Our world shrank to the confines of the hospital room, the hum of machines a constant reminder of the fight for our son’s life. He was rushed to Great Ormond Street Hospital, placed on ECMO, a life-support machine that replaced the function of his lungs and heart. The sight of my baby connected to this invasive machine, his tiny body barely visible, was a torment I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Five agonizing weeks passed, each day a battle, each night a prayer. Three times, we were told to prepare for the worst, but each time, he fought back, a flicker of hope against the odds. He suffered a stroke and a heart attack, yet somehow, he survived. But the scars of this fight were deep, a constant reminder of the battle he had endured.
After coming off ECMO, Spike remained on ventilation for another four weeks, followed by three weeks in the hospital. We were told he would likely have brain damage and other health issues.
Finally, six weeks after his ordeal began, we brought him home. Our once vibrant, healthy baby was emaciated, frail, and fragile. He had bronchiectasis, a lung condition, and was deaf due to the medication he received. His development was delayed, and he didn’t walk until he was three years old.
He is now 16 years old. He has profound deafness, mild cerebral palsy, limited understanding, ADHD, delayed speech, and needs lifelong care. Whooping cough, the illness that nearly took his life, has left permanent damage.
But despite his challenges, Spike is a testament to resilience. He loves music, rollercoasters, playing, and swimming. He finds joy in the simple things, his happy place a nest swing in the garden. He’s a reminder that even amidst adversity, life can be beautiful.
As a nurse and mother, I know the dangers of whooping cough firsthand. It’s not just a cough; it’s a life-altering disease. I urge every parent to get their children vaccinated. There’s no greater gift you can give them.
My heart aches for the child Spike could have been, the child he was robbed of by this preventable illness. But I am also eternally grateful that he is alive. His story is a stark reminder of the importance of vaccination. Please, don’t let another family experience this pain. Vaccinate your children. It could save their lives.
