The Gift of Grace
Leaving Te Anau was one of the hardest choices we made. We’d built a life there farm work, deer and sheep, the quiet mornings and wide-open sky. But once we knew Hannah-Rose’s condition and that we’d need an elective C-section, it wasn’t really a choice anymore. The hospital was nearly two hours away if something went wrong. We needed to be closer.
So we packed up our lives, said goodbye to the farm, and headed for Dunedin. It felt strange leaving everything familiar, but we knew it was the right move. Both our families are from here, and it’s where me and my partner first met when we were younger. We wanted that sense of home again, and we found it in Waikouaiti a small town by the beach, just out of Dunedin. It had the calm country feel we loved, but close enough to the hospital if we needed help fast. It felt like the right place to start her journey, surrounded by nature, the sea breeze, and family support close by.
Our midwife in Te Anau, Maison Burns (née Gray), had been an absolute gem during my last pregnancy. Leaving her was tough because she’d become more like a friend than just a midwife. She understood me, and I trusted her completely. When we told her about our move and Hannah-Rose’s condition, she said, “You’ll want someone down there you can really lean on.” She recommended a midwife named Gina Glass — said she’d be the perfect emotional support through what was ahead.
We didn’t really need a midwife in the medical sense since everything was planned, but I thought, why not? If it didn’t feel right, we could always say no thanks. But Gina ended up being one of the biggest blessings of the whole journey. She wasn’t just a midwife — she was this calm, warm presence who carried us through the most emotional days of our lives. She tried to make the whole delivery feel personal, even in a sterile theatre room full of strangers.
Gina helped us plan small, meaningful touches a playlist of music we loved, and a muka pito tie, a beautiful Māori tradition where flax is used to tie the umbilical cord. It’s completely natural, and the flax has antiseptic properties to help healing. It made the experience feel more sacred. And it really did heal beautifully even tho Hannah-Rose decided to poop all over it! We ended up switching to a plastic one just to be safe, but we kept the flax tie as a keepsake.
The day of her birth wasn’t peaceful. It was loud and rushed and overwhelming. Around twenty people were in the room, all talking over each other. I was trying to stay calm, but it felt more like a circus performance than a birth. Everyone wanted a turn to be heard someone was checking the spinal block, someone else was explaining things I already knew, and another was just filling the air with noise. I kept looking for Gina’s face, but she’d been shoved into the corner. I remember thinking where’s Gina? and I asked Where’s the music?”
The music finally came on, but by then my heart was racing,can we turn off the music i asked. Everything went quiet after the spinal, and I felt the tugging start. It wasn’t gentle, it was deep pressure in my chest and it was like people searching through a stuffed handbag,looking for a lost key pulling and twisting. I just kept thinking, please let her be okay.
Then, finally, after what felt like forever, dan whispered “she’s here”, she was out. But no sound. The air thinned, my heart stopped. Then, the tiniest cry a soft, polite sound, like she was introducing herself. “Hi Mum. Hi Dad. Here I made it!.” They took her straight to the table to check her over, but I couldn’t handle that I just needed her. “I want my baby,” I said, When they brought her to me, I burst into tears. She was perfect. Her tiny feet were shaped like love hearts. I touched them and she wrapped them around my fingers. That was it I knew in that moment she was going to prove every doctor wrong. The ones who said she’d never move her legs, never have a “quality life.” She moved them right there, two minutes old, already proving them wrong.
We hadn’t picked her name yet. I’d always loved the name Grace, but it didn’t quite fit. We liked Rose, too, but not as a first name. When she about four days old, I said “Hannah” out loud, and me and Dan looked at each other, smiled, and said, “Hannah-Rose.” It was instant. That was her.
When we got home after 6 days, things got rough. She was so lethargic, barely opening her eyes, falling asleep the second she latched on. I knew it wasn’t right. This was my fifth baby I knew the difference between newborn tired and something deeper. She’d feed for five minutes, then sleep for hours, too exhausted to wake up for her next feed.
We went back to the hospital, Dan was trying to get us there as safe and fast as possible and on the drive there she barely responded to me. It was terrifying that sinking, sick feeling in your stomach that something is really wrong. I kept trying to wake her, saying her name, rubbing her cheeks. Nothing. It felt like it took us hours, all I could do was pray in the end. I felt that it worked, she just looked straight at me and was like she was saying “its okay im still here, im just tired”
When we arrived, they brushed it off, said, “She’s just new, she’ll wake up more soon.” But I knew she wouldn’t. I jumped back onto my Arthrogryposis Moms group online and asked if this was normal. Within minutes, a bunch of mums replied saying, yes, it’s part of it. Their babies had all been the same sleepy, weak, some needing feeding tubes. I felt a bit calmer knowing we weren’t alone.
Twelve hours later, the doctors finally realised I was right she wasn’t feeding enough. She’d only managed a few minutes every three hours. They admitted her to NICU, and that broke me. I couldn’t bear watching them put in the feeding tube, so Dan stayed for that part. I stayed with Hannah-Rose afterward, I couldn’t leave her side. Dan went home for a quick shower, fed the dog, and went to see our other kids, then came straight back. We were both running on empty. I don’t think either of us had slept more than five hours in total that entire week. Everything was a blur we were just surviving on autopilot.
But then there were people who made it bearable. The NICU nurse, was one of them. She is absolutely incredible she truly cares for all her babies in the NICU she treats them like her own so attentive and caring. She said Hannah-Rose was the sweetest baby she’d ever cared for. Her cry was soft, like she was saying, “Excuse me, may I please have my milk now?” She said she was so polite and she was. Every two hours, like clockwork, she’d wake for her feed. She just didn’t have the strength to finish it and was given her milk via tube, Her tiny body had worked so hard just to grow; it made sense she was exhausted.
Even then, she had her cheeky side. When she started waking a bit more, she’d open one eye for her dad, but if I leaned in, she’d quickly close it again like, “Nope, not for you, Mum.” I remember laughing and saying, “Oh, so I’m just the milk lady now?” Eventually, she let me see both her eyes. Big, dark blue, and full of soul. They looked straight into your heart.
The birth felt like a circus at times all the noise, the rush, the stares. Everyone wanted to see her before she was born, and then no one wanted to listen when I said something wasn’t right. Still, through all of that, there were small moments of pure love and grace the music, the flax tie, Gina’s gentle hands, the way Hannah-Rose ’s feet wrapped around my fingers like she’d been holding on forever.
It was chaotic, yes, and terrifying at times. But it was also the beginning of something magical the start of a story that would show us what real strength looks like.