On the 6th of January 2025, we welcomed our beautiful baby boy, Tucker, into our family via elective caesarean. Born with a great set of lungs and a head full of luscious hair (yes, before you ask, I had heartburn), he instantly had everyone smitten!
Pregnancy had been a dream. Aside from being heavily pregnant during a scorching Queensland summer, I loved every minute of it. But heading to the hospital that morning, we were terrified. We cried and grappled with all the big questions: How would our lives change? Would we be good parents? How would this affect our relationship? What on earth had we signed up for?
I remember seeing a viral video during my pregnancy saying, “You’ve done hard things before, you’ve been tired before, and you’ve been grumpy before, but you’ve never experienced the joy that’s about to come.” Boy, were they right! That overwhelming love and joy came fast and strong. We knew not despite those earlier questions, but because of them, we’d be great parents because we were Tucker’s parents, and he was meant for us. How true that became very soon.
From the moment he arrived, Tucker charmed everyone he met! His full head of hair, sweet little face, and curious gaze made people say, “He’s so alert for a newborn, an old soul for sure!” His name was also the talking point of the century. It might be a bit uncommon in Australia, but it’s so perfect for him.
He passed every newborn check with flying colours, and soon enough, we were home, basking in the bliss of newborn life. Sure, we had squeaky nights, reflux, and gas, but Tucker’s cheeky grins and little chuckles melted us every time. Life was sweet, and we were in baby bliss.
But just as a cyclone was brewing off the coast of South East Queensland, a storm of infection was brewing in our tiny baby.
On Tucker’s two-month birthday, we filmed ourselves dancing in the kitchen, soaking up his smiles and endless babbles. That evening, he seemed unsettled, pulling his legs up like he had gas, and by 10:30 pm, he wasn’t interested in feeding. Something didn’t feel right but we thought we were just paranoid first-time parents – babies get gassy, right? A cyclone was bearing down, and every clinic, GP, and doctor’s office was shut. Hospitals are for emergencies, we thought. We took his temperature (which was normal), decided to wait until morning, and tried to rest.
By 3:00 am, we were worried. By 10:00 am, we knew something was wrong. Tucker was ghostly pale, whimpering, and the toes on his left foot had started twitching in his sleep. When his entire left leg began twitching, we took a video and did what every new parent does, Googled it. “Seizures,” it said. Surely not! It wasn’t the convulsions you imagine or see in the movies, just a subtle twitching that stopped on its own. After calling Tyler’s mum, a nurse in America, we rang the Child Health Nurse for advice. “Do we drive out in a cyclone and go to a hospital?” I asked. I’ll never forget her calm reply: “Corrie, I don’t want to panic you, but I’m going to call an ambulance. I think Tucker is having seizures, and we’re going to get you some help.”
When a medical professional says, “I don’t want to panic you,” you panic.
We can only thank God and every loved one looking down on us that the Queensland Ambulance arrived within 10 minutes. The paramedics were calm and reassuring, explaining Tucker’s temperature was elevated and febrile seizures can happen when babies get fevers. Tucker and I headed to the hospital in the ambulance while Tyler followed in the car. Before we’d gone 2 minutes down the road, I noticed Tucker’s toes twitching again. This time, the twitching spread up his left leg and arm, and his eyes stared blankly to the left. The seizure didn’t stop on its own, and the paramedics had to pull over to administer Midazolam. I prayed Tyler wasn’t right behind us, watching the ambulance pull to the side of the highway.
We arrived at the hospital and everyone else on the ramp ahead of us moved to the side so we could go first, “how nice” I remember thinking. Why I was so surprised when I walked behind the stretcher to room full of resus teams waiting for our tiny boy, I will never know. Shock, I suppose.
“How long has the seizure been going?” asked a nurse. “It stopped in the ambulance about 10 minutes ago,” replied the paramedic. “Shit, he’s very pale,” the nurse responded.
The resus teams jumped into action, cutting off his onesie, inserting lines, and assessing Tucker. The most incredible social worker stood by us, calmly explaining who was who and what was happening. Tucker was whisked off for a CT scan, the social worker making sure we stayed close.
It was a whirlwind—questions, tests, and decisions. He was put on broad-spectrum antibiotics while doctors waited for test results. “Meningitis” they said, “Tucker’s symptoms are consistent with meningitis, but we don’t know what’s causing it yet.” We wouldn’t know for sure until the cultures came back.
Hours later, Tyler spotted the twitching again. The nurses jumped into action, administering more medication to stop the seizure. Outside, the storm was raging, and Logan Hospital knew Tucker needed more than they could provide. Tucker needed to be transferred to Queensland Children’s Hospital (QCH), but the cyclone was making transfers nearly impossible. Thanks to a determined paediatrician at Logan Hospital and QCH moving heaven and earth, a recovery team was dispatched.
Following the ambulance to QCH felt surreal, the roads looked apocalyptic. The small blessing of the cyclone meant despite the fact it was 5:30pm on a Friday, every major motorway was empty.
We arrived in the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU), where more doctors than we could count were waiting. A constant stream of questions and background followed. Tucker’s condition was critical, and the doctors gently began preparing us for what could happen if things took a turn for the worse. My parents arrived, and together we cried as we prayed over our very sick boy.
Our gorgeous nurses Kayleigh and Suz helped us settle in and even made sure we got a cuddle despite all the wires. When Tucker’s left eye suddenly dilated but his right eye didn’t, Suz calmly called out, “I’ve got a blown pupil,” and all hell broke loose. Every available doctor and nurse crowded the room as his tiny brain swelled. Intubation was the next step. Watching our baby be intubated was one of the most harrowing things we’ve ever experienced.
The following morning, cultures confirmed the diagnosis: late-onset Group B Streptococcus (GBS), which had caused bacterial meningitis. We were shocked as doctors explained GBS is a common bacteria that can be passed from mother to child during a vaginal birth. It was confusing—Tucker had been born via elective caesarean. How could he have contracted GBS? That’s a question we might never have an answer for. Please know that testing for GBS is not routine in all hospitals, and we had no idea it was even a risk. I beg every expectant mum to ask to be swabbed. It really could change everything.
The next few days were the hardest of our lives. An MRI showed damage to his brain – thickened brain lining, lesions from seizures and infection, and tiny clots. There was a risk of developmental movement challenges, and the potential of hearing loss. But Tucker fought back. Slowly, he improved. He was extubated, eating again, and by Monday we were moved out of PICU onto a ward.
That’s when our concerns about his hearing grew. Despite assurances from all the health professionals that he was tracking us across the room, we felt something wasn’t right. We requested a hearing test, and despite knowing in our hearts something was wrong, nothing could have prepared us for the audiologist’s words:
“I’m so sorry, Tucker has a permanent sensorineural hearing loss.”
Our world stopped spinning. Profoundly Deaf in both ears, our beautiful boy couldn’t hear our voices. The grief was overwhelming, and we’ll never forget the relief we felt when my mum dropped everything to stay the night with Tucker in the hospital, giving us a moment to fall apart. We were devastated and numb all at once – crying uncontrollably, struggling to understand how this had happened to our innocent baby. He hadn’t asked for this, yet his life was forever changed.
We were presented with three options:
- Pursue cochlear implants and intensive speech therapy to help Tucker navigate the hearing world.
- Embrace Auslan and raise him as a profoundly deaf child.
- Explore bilingualism, combining spoken English (with cochlear implants) and Auslan.
These are huge decisions to make for your two-month-old. We’re still processing and gathering information to make the best, most informed decision for Tucker.
We want to acknowledge this is still a very new diagnosis. We’re still processing, and there are many steps ahead before we can even determine if Tucker is eligible for cochlear implants. What we do know is that we don’t have to have it all figured out tomorrow or even next week. Whatever decision we make will be the right one because we’re Tucker’s parents, and he was meant for us. We’re learning that it’s okay to feel grateful he’s here and getting better while also grieving the loss of his hearing and the life we once imagined.
We won’t lie, this stage of our parenting journey has been incredibly traumatic. We’re finally home (under Hospital in the Home) and learning to trust our instincts all over again, constantly questioning if Tucker’s movements are just normal baby wiggles or something more concerning. It’s a rollercoaster of pure joy, resilience, advocacy, and deep sadness – the pendulum of parenthood on a whole other level.
We’ve met some truly incredible doctors, nurses, specialists, and social workers at Queensland Children’s Hospital. These amazing people literally saved our baby (we’re looking at you, Dr Mei-Lin, Dr Andrew, and Suze, among countless others) and held our hands through it all. We could never fully express our gratitude, though it would be remiss not to admit that we wish we’d never needed to meet them. And we hope you never have to either.
The future feels uncertain, and we may never fully understand what happened. There’s a lot of hope, but also plenty of fear. We’re taking it one day at a time, making the best decisions we can for our family.
It feels like we’ve lived a lifetime in these past three weeks, but this is just the beginning. There will be bumps along the way but at the end of the day we get to be parents to the strongest and most resilient little boy, who always has a smile for everyone he meets.
So here we are, the end of our first post. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. This space will be a place for us to share and process over the coming weeks, months, and years. A space for learning, growing, and fiercely loving our boy.
We invite you to follow along for as long as we’re willing to share. It’s unfortunate that it sometimes takes tragedy to realise how strong your village truly is. We wouldn’t still be standing without ours.
Finding our way, together,
Tyler and Corrie
The Language Lane 