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An Open Letter to the Neonatal Unit Staff Who Cared for My Premature Baby

15/02/2015 22:09 GMT | Updated 17/04/2015 10:59 BST

Dear Neonatal Unit Staff,

You looked after my son Hugo, born at just 24+4 and weighing just 420 grams.

You also looked after Hugo's mummy and his daddy.

There is no way we can ever thank you for everything you did for Hugo, and us. There is no way that any letter can ever fully articulate everything you did for Hugo and for us - but I am going to try.

I shrieked the first time I saw Hugo. I couldn't believe it was possible for a live baby to be so small, and so red. You encouraged me to open the incubator doors, put my hands in and touch my baby. I did, and Hugo instantly gripped my finger. It was the most amazing moment, one I shall remember as long as I live. I loved that Hugo knew I was his mummy, even though we had been separated for more than 30 hours.

Hugo could be a right little monkey. I couldn't believe how much mischief a baby who weighed the same as a tin of baked beans could create. Hugo knew wanted what he wanted, and when he wanted it. Whether it was to be placed on his tummy, his feed, or a clean bum he wanted it now, thank you.

You called him Hugo Boss. He was the boss. I loved that you gave him a nickname.

You knew all his ways, what he wanted and how he liked it. We were all happier when he was happy.

Hugo was small, and very premature. His outcome was always uncertain. You were honest yet hopeful, while never giving us false hope.

You taught us to make the most of every day with Hugo. To take photos, to sing and to read to him. To touch him as much as possible.

You helped us to feel like a 'proper' mummy and daddy as much as possible. You were patient when showing us how to change a nappy through the portholes and not getting tangled in all the wires. You let us help give Hugo his milk. You let us help give Hugo a wash - he would screw up his face when it was wiped over.

You always took time to explain things, and there was never such a thing as a silly question.

You encouraged me to keep expressing my breast milk - the breast milk that Hugo loved so much.

You did everything you could to help us, especially as we were in a hospital far away from home. We knew you were always there for all of us.

We knew you loved Hugo nearly as much as we did. We knew you wanted us to be able to take Hugo home as much as we did.

We knew that if Hugo Boss hadn't been so likely to have had a complete meltdown, you would have given him a cuddle when we weren't there.

You knew that once Hugo settled in to his skin-to-skin cuddles, he loved them. They were our favourite moments. Our skin against his skin, feeling his little feet kick our chests, his little hands tracing our skin (or grabbing his dad's chest hair).

You encouraged us to rest, to take care of ourselves, so we could look after Hugo.

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You tried every possible treatment for Hugo. You knew Hugo had a lot of fighting spirit.

When it came to the end, you were frank and honest. There are certain things I would rather not remember, to erase from my mind.

There were decisions we did not want to have to make. But we were able to be good parents to Hugo, to help him pass peacefully. To let him do what he wanted when he wanted to do it in death as well as in life. For him to die in his favourite place, skin-to-skin on my chest, listening to my heart beat.

Thank you for letting me change his nappy for the last time. To let me dress him in a little babygrow for the first - and last - time. They are treasured memories.

We knew how much you cared for Hugo when you came in to the room to say goodbye to him. Many of you had tears in your eyes. It touched us to know that Hugo Boss had touched you, and that you were sorry his fight was over.

You have your favourite Hugo stories - this was a tiny boy with a huge personality. Stories of when he would ding his alarms to get what he wanted; how you would never forget how his blood pressure magically increased when I appeared on that terrifying night we first met; saying how astonished you were at how his saturations would increase when I sang to him; when he would open his eyes to peek at you.

So few people were able to meet Hugo in person, and it means the world to me that you cared for him so much.

With love and everlasting gratitude,

Hugo's Mummy and Daddy

This post was originally published on the author's blog, Headspace Perspective.