NICU Life: The Longest Days of Our Lives

This is our story, Max and Teddy’s story, of how love, fear and hope carried us through the longest days of our lives.

Nothing Prepares You for NICU

Nothing can ever prepare you for the moment your babies arrive too soon. We knew our twins were likely to come early, but we hoped we might reach 32 weeks. Instead, on Valentine’s Day 2023, at exactly 30 weeks, our world changed forever.

Pregnancy had already been a fight. We were monitored closely for TTTS (Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome), a rare condition where identical twins sharing a placenta develop an uneven blood flow

between them. One baby receives too much, the other too little. Teddy, our smaller twin, was also diagnosed with SIUGR (Selective Intrauterine Growth Restriction), meaning his blood flow and growth were dangerously reduced. At one point, his cord flow was almost absent and the pregnancy turned into a race against time.

I'd been for a routine scan in the fetal medicine unit at Metway hospital. I was on my own as we were having two scans a week from 25 weeks so that was just our normal. The nurse told me that because Teddys cord flow was almost absent I'd have to stay in hospital and have a csection. I was given a steriod injection and had to beg them to let me go home to sort our daughters out and grab my hospital bag. I then had to go straight back to the ward to be admitted. The following morning I was being prepped for a C-section. The room was full of people and flashing monitors. At 30 weeks, they were simply too fragile to wait any longer.

The Day Everything Changed

They were born one minute apart.Max arrived first, weighing 3 lb 7 oz, and his cry filled the room. It was a tiny, beautiful sound of life.Teddy followed, weighing just 800 grams, not even two pounds. He came out silent.

I remember asking, “Is he okay?” and Darren’s voice trying to steady mine as a team surrounded our tiny boy. There was a moment that felt endless until Teddy let out the faintest whimper, a sound that reminded us of a newborn lamb. That sound is something I will never forget. It was the smallest noise, yet it meant everything.

Both boys were rushed straight to intensive care at the Oliver Fisher Neonatal Unit in Medway Hospital, Kent. Max needed to be intubated almost immediately. Teddy was placed beside him, in a separate incubator, both surrounded by tubes and lights. I did not get to see them properly until the next day.

That first night I lay in my bed on a shared ward, listening to new mums feeding and soothing their babies while my arms were empty. I have never felt such pain. My body had given birth, but my babies were somewhere else, fighting for their lives.

NICU: Our New World

When I finally saw them the following morning, the sight took my breath away. It was not just because of their size, but because of everything keeping them alive. Wires, tubes, and blinking monitors surrounded them. Their skin was almost translucent. The beeping of the machines never stopped. Alarms would sound, nurses would rush in, and every second felt like another test of faith.

Both boys had jaundice, so they lay under blue lights with their tiny eyes covered. Max’s infection markers were dangerously high and he needed a long line fitted. Teddy’s weight dropped even further. Both were on oxygen and Vapotherm.

I was still bleeding heavily from surgery, but I refused to wait for help to be wheeled to them. I walked myself down the corridor, slowly and painfully, because I just needed to be near them. The midwives eventually moved me to another section of the ward so I did not have to hear the cries of babies beside their mothers. That small act of kindness meant more than they will ever know.

For three weeks, the Oliver Fisher Ward became our entire world. I pumped milk around the clock, stored in labelled syringes and bottles, then made the daily trip back and forth to deliver it. After three days, I was discharged and we began the routine of living between home and hospital.

When the boys were finally strong enough, they were transferred to our local NICU at Tunbridge Wells.

Tiny Fighters

Those weeks felt like living in another world, one that existed entirely within the walls of NICU. Every morning we would wake up and brace ourselves for the day ahead. We never knew what news we would be met with when we arrived. Some days felt hopeful, others were filled with setbacks that left us breathless.

Both boys continued to battle. Max’s infection markers remained high for days, and the doctors inserted a long line so they could administer stronger medication. Teddy struggled to gain weight, and his blood sugars dropped dangerously low. He received four blood transfusions in total, each one a reminder of how fragile his tiny body was and how dependent we were on the kindness of strangers who donated blood.

Every day brought new challenges: jaundice, infections, oxygen levels, and constant feeding issues. I was still expressing milk around the clock, setting alarms through the night even when all I wanted to do was sleep. Each bottle I carried to the hospital felt like the only thing I could do for them when so much was out of my control.

One of the hardest moments came when the consultant asked to sit me down. My mum was with me that day. The scans had shown cysts on Max’s brain, something they had picked up during his routine weekly head scan. They could not tell us what it would mean for his future, only that it might affect his development. I remember nodding as they spoke, but the words did not feel real. I felt the floor fall away beneath me. I sobbed until there was nothing left.

Teddy was also fighting his own battles. His growth had slowed dramatically and his body was struggling to maintain his blood sugar levels. He was so small that even the tiniest nappy looked enormous on him. The doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, adjusting feeds, monitoring blood transfusions, and watching for any signs of progress.

The Staff Who Became Family

During those long weeks, the staff at both hospitals became part of our family. At Oliver Fisher, every nurse treated our boys as though they were their own. When we transferred to Tunbridge Wells, that same level of care continued.

Justyna in the High Dependency Unit and Michelle and Jackie in SCBU were angels in scrubs. They were calm, reassuring, and endlessly patient. They never made me feel like I was in the way, even when I was sitting silently by the incubators, counting every breath my boys took. They would encourage me to rest, to eat, and to take small breaks. I rarely listened!

Every time I left the hospital to go home, I would cry in the car. It felt unnatural to leave them there. Some nights I simply could not bear it, so I would get up at midnight and drive back to the hospital, and sit beside them while the rest of the world slept.

Darren and I tried our best to hold everything together. He did most of the updates to friends and family because I could not talk about it without breaking down. He was working, looking after the girls, and somehow still managing to be strong for me. I will always be grateful for that.

At home, Olivia and Sophia were amazing. Olivia, our calm and sensitive girl, found it hard seeing me cry. She was only 8, but wise beyond her years. She was also going through her own struggles at school, and yet she never once complained. Sophia, our wild and energetic 4-year-old, kept our spirits up with her humour and energy. They were both so patient, even though they missed their brothers and wanted to understand why everything was different.

Staying Connected

Every night I took comfort in the small muslins and knitted squares the hospital provided. We would swap them daily so that the boys had one that smelled like me, and I had one that smelled like them. It helped my milk production and, in some strange way, helped me feel connected to them when I could not be there.

The nurses also used an app to send us updates, often with little photos and notes about the boys’ day. Sometimes it was a short message like “no desats today”, but that was enough to lift my whole mood. When you are a NICU parent, no news is good news, and even the smallest update can make you breathe again.

Tiny Triumphs

Among the fear and exhaustion, there were moments that felt like pure magic. I got my first cuddle with the boys two days after they were born. The nurses helped me carefully navigate the wires and tubes, lifting one baby at a time onto my chest. They were so small that I could barely feel their weight, yet that first skin-to-skin contact is something I will never forget.

It would be three weeks before I finally held them together. Having them both in my arms at once felt like the world had finally started to make sense again. For the first time since they were born, I felt like their mum, not just a visitor in their hospital room.

Every milestone felt monumental. The first time they tolerated a feed, the first time they came off oxygen, the first time a machine stopped beeping. I celebrated every small step forward. Max began to show steady progress, his cheeks slowly filling out, his skin turning from deep pink to soft peach. Teddy remained our little fighter, so tiny but with a spirit that filled the room.

At around two months old, Max breastfed from me for the first time. It was something I never thought would happen. Each time I tried before, I had panic attacks, but the nurses were patient and calm, and they helped me find the confidence to try again. It only happened a handful of times before we returned home, but it gave me such pride to know that we did it, even once.

Teddy reached a huge milestone too, 100 days in NICU! Around that time, he was transferred to Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospital for a double hernia operation. It was terrifying handing him over for surgery when he was still so fragile, but we had to trust the team around us. When he was transferred back to Tunbridge Wells after the procedure, the staff had made a little sign that said “Welcome Back, Teddy.”

 It made me cry. It was such a small thing, but after months of fear and uncertainty, that simple gesture reminded us how loved our boys were by the people who cared for them.

Because Teddy couldn’t take a bottle, we had to learn how to bolus feed him through an NG tube. The nurses trained us patiently, step by step, until we felt confident. It became second nature, another part of our new normal.

Balancing Two Worlds

While all this was happening, I was still trying to be the best mum I could be for Olivia and Sophia. Mornings were chaos. I would take Sophia to the childminder and Olivia to school before heading straight to the hospital. In the evenings, when Darren came home from work, I would go back to spend time with the boys.

When Max came home first, on 12 April, it was one of the happiest and hardest days of my life. After almost two months in hospital, having him home was incredible, but leaving Teddy behind broke me. I felt torn in two. I would look at Max sleeping in his cot and feel both overwhelming love and aching guilt. Every night I thought about Teddy lying alone in his incubator, and every morning I rushed back to him.

Even though our family was split between two worlds, I tried to remind myself that every day was progress. Every gram of weight gained, every stable monitor reading, every “no desats today” meant we were one step closer to bringing Teddy home.

Coming Home

After 108 days, Teddy finally came home. It was the most emotional day. Seeing both boys side by side in their cot for the first time at home is something I will never forget. We had waited 108 long, exhausting, terrifying days for that moment.

But the fear did not vanish overnight. Teddy was still tiny, still fragile, and needed careful feeding through his NG tube. I was terrified something might go wrong, but over time I learned to trust myself again.

Our house was filled medical equipment, and baby noise, but also laughter and love. Olivia and Sophia finally had their brothers home, and the girls were so proud. They would stand beside the cot, singing to them and telling them how strong they were. For the first time in months, our family felt whole again.

Reflections and Gratitude

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder how we made it through those months. The exhaustion, the endless hospital visits, the pumping schedules, the worry that never left our minds. Yet somehow, we did.

I think NICU changes you in ways you do not expect. It strips everything back to the basics. You learn patience, gratitude and resilience that you never knew you had. Before the twins were born, I used to take so many things for granted. Now I celebrate the tiniest wins. A new word, a first step, a night of solid sleep. I have learned that nothing about parenting is guaranteed, and every small moment truly matters.

Today, both boys are thriving in their own ways. Max is calm, determined and strong. His diagnosis of cerebral palsy is a reminder of the fight he began in those first few weeks, but it does not define him. He continues to amaze us with his strength and his smile. Teddy, our tiny tornado, is full of energy and love. He still faces challenges with his cortisol deficiency and night-time PEG feeds, but he brings so much joy to our lives. The way he hugs without being asked, the way he laughs with his whole body, those are things that make every hard day worth it.

Olivia and Sophia have grown in compassion and maturity far beyond their years. They have learned what love and patience truly mean. I know that this journey has shaped all of us.

I will never forget the nurses and doctors at both Oliver Fisher Neonatal Unit and Tunbridge Wells Hospital. They were there through our darkest days, caring for our boys as if they were their own. People like Justyna, Michelle, and Jackie will always hold a special place in our hearts. They were more than medical staff, they were family when we needed it most.

To any parent walking into NICU for the first time: please know that you are not alone. Take each day as it comes. No news really is good news. Cry when you need to, rest when you can, and celebrate every small victory.

Raising Awareness

Every November, World Prematurity Month reminds us that not all babies arrive on time.In the UK, around one in thirteen babies is born prematurely, and for parents of multiples the risks are even higher. Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome (TTTS) and Selective Intrauterine Growth Restriction (SIUGR) are rare, but life-threatening complications that affect identical twin pregnancies like ours.

Premature babies often face lifelong challenges. Conditions such as cerebral palsy are more common in preterm births, but thanks to medical advances and the incredible dedication of neonatal teams, survival rates continue to improve every year.

Our story is just one among thousands, but every single one matters. Every baby fighting beneath those blue lights and every parent sitting by an incubator at 3 a.m. deserves to be seen, supported and celebrated.

Author’s Note

Written for World Prematurity Month in honour of Max and Teddy, and for every family still walking their NICU journey.

Beau Yeung