We had got through the birth together, both of us. We had made it home. I had thought we were safe. But we weren’t safe. Felix had emerged from my body to begin his life, and his life was confusion and disaster. Something had happened to him – maybe in the womb, or maybe during the birth – something exceptionally rare. Rare but real. We had been struck by lightning. Of all of the places misfortune could have chosen to come to earth, it had picked us.

There was a rapid escalation. A more senior paediatrician came in. His face was anxious, his voice gentle. He spoke of scans, of the possible need for surgery. I burst into tears and he looked more anxious still.

I had always prided myself on being able to stay calm in an emergency. But I was beyond being calm now. My milk had just come in, and I was still bleeding. My whole body felt as if it was awash with sadness, and there was nothing I could do to stop what was happening and make it better.

I rang Mark at home; it was first Monday of the Christmas holidays, and he was there with the girls. I cried again on the phone to him. He came as quickly as he could, leaving the girls behind, and arriving just in time to meet the new, very senior doctor who had come to review our case.

There was a frisson of respect from the staff in the room as the specialist delivered his verdict. Felix would need an operation, as soon as possible – that very day. The only way to tackle the infection was at source. The part of Felix that had died had to be removed.

We asked questions, but they didn’t make any difference to the answer. The operation had to happen, the sooner the better, and if it didn’t, Felix wouldn’t get well.

Then the specialist told us that Felix was to have nil by mouth until after the operation, and left us.

Felix was to have general anaesthetic, and I couldn’t feed him, and my breasts were bursting with milk. I wanted to feed him so much. I had never wanted anything more. And yet I couldn’t, because if I did, he might die.

And he wanted my milk – he cried for it. His crying was terrible. I gave him to Mark to hold because I couldn’t bear it – I couldn’t keep our baby in my arms and hear him and see his distress when it was so completely within my power to satisfy him and soothe him, and so essential for me to refuse him. We gave him our clean fingers to suck, we tried a dummy, but none of that was any good at all. It would satisfy him for a moment, and then he would realise it wasn’t what he wanted and begin to wail again.

Eventually he wore himself out, and slept.

A midwife showed up with a breast pump for me, and I milked myself and that was a relief, but only a physical one. It was nothing to what I would have felt if I could have fed my baby again.