Charlea went under the knife and made a startling discovery…
Pulling my seat belt around my body, I looked out of the plane window, then grinned at my husband, Andy.
‘Excited?’ he asked.
‘Can’t wait!’ I beamed back.
We were jetting off to Turkey, but we wouldn’t be lounging by the pool sipping mojitos.
Because this wasn’t a holiday…
I was getting a tummy tuck!
I’d turned to food for comfort for years, until I’d reached 30st and decided enough was enough.
After gastric sleeve surgery to remove a large portion of my stomach, I’d shed 18 stone.
Then I’d met Andy.
But I still wasn’t 100% happy with my body.
I had lots of loose skin, so
I took the plunge, paying £2500 to wave my saggy tum goodbye.
Once we arrived at the hospital, Andy kissed me and
I was wheeled away to the operating theatre.
When I came back round,
I looked down at my flat belly covered in bandages.
‘Everything went well,’ the surgeon explained. ‘But it will take several months to fully recover, and you need to wait
at least 12 months if you want
to try for a baby.’
That was the last thing on my mind, and for good reason.
In my 20s, I’d been diagnosed
with polycystic ovaries, and doctors had told me it was unlikely I’d ever be able to have children.
So I’d accepted that, although I’d love to be a mum, it wouldn’t happen for me.
After I’d rested up after the operation, we flew back home.
I was thrilled when I admired the results in the mirror.
But three weeks later, as
I pottered around the house,
I felt a pain in my stomach.
‘Ow,’ I gasped.
I lifted up my top and my
eyes widened.
There was green pus oozing from my new belly button.
‘Is it infected?’ I asked Andy.
‘I think so,’ he winced.
My GP referred me to hospital, where I was reassured that the infection would go away on its own, and I was sent off with a prescription for antibiotics.
But by 10 days later, my belly button looked even worse.
'Don't worry, I can't be pregnant'
Then, at work, as I looked at my laptop screen, everything went blurry and turned black.
When I next opened my eyes,
I was in hospital surrounded
by doctors.
‘Your belly button is badly infected, we need to do emergency surgery,’ one said.
I was asked to do a urine sample and had bloods taken while I waited to go down to
the operating theatre.
‘Don’t worry, I can’t be pregnant, I’ve just had a tummy tuck,’ I laughed.
‘We just have to be sure,’
the nurse replied.
Andy stayed by my side as
the hours dragged on.
‘I’m so hungry, I really want
a chicken and bacon sandwich,’
I moaned to Andy.
I wasn’t allowed to eat before the surgery, but this was such
an intense craving.
Weirdly, I hadn’t had a craving like that since having my gastric sleeve surgery.
Finally, the nurse came back
to see me. She had a strange expression on her face.
She took a deep breath.
‘What’s wrong?’ I panicked.
‘We think you might be pregnant…’ she said.
My jaw dropped to the floor.
‘No, it’s impossible, that’s ridiculous!’ I gasped.
But she was insistent and showed us the blood results.
I looked at Andy with tears
in my eyes.
‘What do we do?’ I sobbed.
I’d dreamed of this my entire life, but there was no way it was safe for me to carry a baby now.
It had only been a month since my tummy tuck surgery.
Well, that craving makes sense now, I thought.
I sent Andy out for that buttie, then the nurse came back to
take me for an ultrasound.
The sonographer wiped cold jelly over my stomach, but the surgery from my scarring meant he couldn’t see anything.
So he tried an internal scan, which can show clearer images.
‘Do you want to see your baby on the screen?’ he asked.
‘No, I can’t look,’ I replied.
Terrified I wouldn’t be able to carry my baby safely, I couldn’t face seeing our little one.
Not if I’d be cruelly forced to say goodbye.
‘Are they even alive?’ I fretted.
‘They’re very much alive,’ the nurse smiled. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to look?’
I took a deep breath.
‘OK, I think I do,’ I nodded.
No matter what happened, this was my miracle baby.
She turned the screen to face me.
There, a small shape bounced around like a beachball in my belly.
‘Hello, baby,’ I cried, as the tears flowed.
The sonographer said I was
13 weeks pregnant – which meant our baby had been eight weeks old when I had my tummy tuck!
Against all the odds, my baby had survived my operation.
The sonographer printed me a picture, and when I was wheeled back to the ward, Andy was by my bed, clutching the sandwich.
'We have to have this little one'
‘Here’s our baby,’ I said, showing him the scan picture.
As he looked at the image of our baby, we both burst into tears.
‘We have to have this little one,’ I begged the doctors.
Thankfully, they cautiously agreed we could go ahead with the pregnancy.
‘But it will be very risky,’ one doctor warned.
I didn’t allow myself to get
too excited, knowing I could miscarry at any time.
Especially with the surgery on my infected belly button in just three weeks’ time.
‘I just want
to enjoy my pregnancy,
I don’t want
to think about the outcome,’
I told Andy.
We agreed that, until we passed the 25-week mark,
we wouldn’t buy anything for our impending arrival.
When I went under the knife again, the surgeon left an 8cm round and 4cm deep hole, which nurses came to my home to bandage each day.
But again, the wound became infected, and I was rushed back in for another emergency operation.
As I came round afterwards, I asked, ‘Can I see my baby?’
The sonographer gave
me another ultrasound and, much to our relief, a thudding heartbeat rang out.
Despite everything my body had been though,
my pregnancy progressed quite smoothly.
As we’d promised ourselves, when I was 25 weeks pregnant, we bought little outfits and decorated
the nursery with cuddly toys.
It wasn’t until I was 36 weeks that I bought a pram.
Finally, I felt confident that our baby was going to come home safely.
Two weeks later, our precious baby came into the world by Caesarean.
‘It’s a boy,’ the midwife said.
But as I waited to hear my newborn son cry, there was nothing but silence.
‘He’s going to be OK,’ Andy reassured me, as doctors got to work on the baby.
My heart was in my mouth.
Seconds later, a high-pitched squeal filled the room.
Andy held up our tiny boy
for me to see.
We called him Billy, after Andy’s grandad, who I’d always felt a connection with.
Billy was our bundle of joy.
Amazingly, after everything he’d been through, he had no health problems, and we took him home the next day.
Life quickly became filled with nappies and feeds, and I loved doting on my little boy.
Now, Billy is 15 months old, and he’s a calm but mischievous little boy.
Quite simply, he’s our miracle.
Even though my tummy tuck didn’t go to plan, I’d pick being his mum over a flat tum any day.
Charlea Carvosso, 37, Southend-on-Sea, Essex