Richard Hogan: We were so worried for our baby... now Sophie is flying it

As he marks his daughter's first Holy Communion, Richard Hogan recalls the day when he and his wife were filled with fear for their unborn child

Erica and Richard Hogan with their family and Sophie, 8, at her first Holy Communion in Malahide, Co Dublin. Pictures: Gareth Chaney

There are some queues you don’t want to skip. I learned that lesson, nearly nine years ago.

Myself and my pregnant wife were sitting in the waiting room to see our doctor. I was bunkering down for a good couple of hours when we were called straight away. I knew there were other people ahead of us, so I realised something wasn’t right.

In fact, about two weeks earlier the doctor told my wife to stop working because the baby hadn’t grown in a couple of weeks. They assumed it was due to the physical demands on my wife, Erica, and she stayed home to rest.

That is a common enough experience during the last couple of month of pregnancy, so we weren’t overly concerned. In fact, we had a bit of fun with it — she had a little bell to ring when she wanted something and told me the baby was hungry! Off I went to feed the baby. The baby doesn’t like Champions League, she likes Location, Location, Location. The baby was a little diva.

But when we were called so quickly that morning, we both looked at each other with worry.

As we sat there and listened to the words coming from the doctor’s mouth, I never felt so vulnerable in my life. The doctor explained my wife had tested positive for cytomegalovirus (CMV) a common infection, particularly for school teachers, but very dangerous in the last trimester of pregnancy.

Words like “leading cause of disability in babies” reverberated off the cold white walls of the hospital, as well as: “It’s important to manage your expectations of the baby,” and “just be there for her”.

I really didn’t know what we were being told. I was outside myself looking down.

Erica and Richard Hogan with daughter Sophie at her first Holy Communion. 

When I think of that morning in that room, I am looking down at myself and my wife, we are holding each other’s hands, quietly listening to what we are being told. I was talking to my grandmother, who I loved so deeply, she was like another parent to me: “Please gran, if you are there, I need your help.” I felt her in that moment and heard her whisper: “Don’t worry boy, it will be fine.”

The doctor told us if the baby was impacted by CVM, it would be jaundiced. I clearly remember thinking, you can manage whatever this will be. You managed your father for all those years, and now you’ll manage this.

Growing up with addiction in your house makes you resourceful and rely on yourself. I handled so many difficult situations in my life growing up, this was just one more I would have to handle.

We silently left that meeting. We walked out to the car without saying a word to each other.

A couple of days later, Sophie was born by emergency C-section. I sat behind Erica, in the operating room, trying to reassure her everything would be fine.

When Sophie was born, Erica looked back, trying to see if her baby was okay. “Is she jaundiced?” she asked without a care for herself. She wasn’t. She was 2lb 6oz. Our journey with hospitals had only begun.

Sophie stayed in the Coombe neonatal ward for six weeks as they tried to get her weight up. But her blood sugar kept spiking and dropping. They couldn’t understand what was causing it.

We couldn’t rest. We would ring the ward just before we went to sleep to hear how her blood sugar was, and were often told it had spiked quite seriously.

We would both lie awake all night trying to understand what was happening to our baby. It was such an unsettling time.

The nurses in the ward were some of the kindest people I have met. Many of them were Filipino nurses. When they learned I had a charity in the Philippines helping the Badjao children, they started to call me ‘kabayan’ (countryman). Every morning I’d be greeted with ‘maayong buntag kabayan’ — morning, countryman.

We met so many wonderful parents. Some babies didn’t survive. Every morning when I came into the ward, I’d see an empty incubator, I’d look at the nurse that I had come to know very well and she would nod ‘no’ to me. People quietly endure so much.

It was such a difficult time. We had two other girls to mind and we didn’t have family living in Dublin to help us.

We used to have to take turns going up to the ward to visit Sophie. I’d sit in the car with Hannah and Lizzy and we’d dance to Michael Jackson, trying to keep it as normal as possible. Then Erica would come down and I’d go up and do a process called ‘Kangaroo Care’ — Sophie would be placed inside my jumper to hear my heart and feel my skin.

Sophie was then moved to Crumlin Children’s Hospital. They had discovered she had a rare illness called transient neonatal diabetes mellitus. Once they got her blood sugar under control, Sophie was allowed to come home. She had spent 12 long weeks in hospital.

The reason I’m writing about that experience is because last Friday Sophie made her Communion. How lucky were we that we got to celebrate that with her and all of our family.

Sophie is flying it. Loves her GAA, art, books, school, and her friends. Experiencing something like that brings you close to how fragile and magical everything is.

Sophie missed some sounds because she was so premature, her first couple of words were: ‘I la lo’. I love you. Happy Communion day Sophie Ali Hogan, you little miracle, I la lo too.