My First Real Scare

I’d been in hospitals before. I’d spent days there, visited family and friends—but nothing prepared me for my last visit.

It started with a slight change in temperature. I thought it would be a casual hospital visit—consultation, medication, and we’d be back home. But things spiraled quickly: tests, crying, my baby shrieking and shaking from a new kind of pain her innocent body wasn’t used to.

And the worst part? Watching her go through it while I stood there helpless, unable to lift her up or ease her pain.

I saw a tiny piece of innocence leave her eyes that day. She was introduced to the world of hospitals—the smell, the medical staff in uniforms, and the discomfort they unintentionally brought. She could see it all. In hindsight, I know everything turned out fine.

But in that moment, I had my first real scare.

My husband was away, and I’m so grateful my sister was with me. My baby had to undergo several tests, and we ended up spending a few nights at the hospital. I kept asking myself how we got there. I had followed everything by the book—kept her on a schedule, protected her from cold and parasites. Still, there she was, vulnerable. And there I was, feeling guilty.

Where did I miss it?

Could this pain be transferred to me?

I thought too much.

My energetic baby just wanted cuddles. She didn’t want to eat. I had to be strong, but at night, in the quiet, I let my tears fall.

That night, I finally understood my mum.

As kids, we’d tag along to the hospital when one of us was admitted, and I remember her always saying,

“I want to go home. This place isn’t home.”

I didn’t understand then. Now I do.

Suddenly, the mundane life I once took for granted became all I wanted again—just me and my daughter in the comfort of her nursery, reading books and whispering sweet nothings.

Shower, feed, sleep, repeat.

I missed it all.

My husband came back earlier than planned—he surprised us. I was knocked out from exhaustion while our baby cooed beside me, and he walked in. She saw him, got all fidgety and excited, and just as he picked her up, I opened my eyes—because motherhood has made me more alert.

Seeing him was like water after wandering the desert.

And honestly, my heart goes out to people doing this alone.

You are STRONG.

With his return, the fear and stress seemed to fade. Baby got better quickly—almost like his presence triggered a healing response. I wouldn’t be surprised if science backed that up.

Those few days in the hospital reminded me of one thing:

Nothing matters more than being safe and healthy.

Only when those are in place can we worry about the rest—work, plans, routines.

I had to pause for my baby. And in her healing, something inside me healed too.

I wish I could say she’ll never fall ill again—but that’s not realistic. All I can do is try to keep her well for as long as I can.

This experience shaped me. It showed me how strong I am.

And it made me admire mums with multiple children even more. Serious kudos to them.

It’s another day of learning on the job—another chance to be a better mum than I was yesterday.

Right now, I’m just grateful she’s much better.

We’re back to enjoying our sweet, simple routines. Oh, how I missed them.