My heart broke the first time I laid eyes on my tiny newborn son, Ray, as he lay hooked up to tubes in an incubator that was keeping him alive.
He was too small to comprehend.
His skin was see-through, his eyes were fused shut - and I couldn't hold him, the one thing that I desperately wanted to do.
I felt hopeless and I felt like he wouldn't know who he was because it wasn't me that he needed, it was the medical team.
My heart was in bits, and that memory over a year on is still so raw.
My husband Jonathan and I didn't know what was in store for over the next three months in NICU - it was an experience that left us so traumatised I would sob uncontrollably in hospital corridors and I would wake up hallucinating.
Ray, our first child, was born 13 weeks early, at 27 weeks' gestation, weighing just 900g on May 22, 2017.
He was immediately wheeled into the NICU at University Hospital of Wales in Cardiff, and Jonathan and I embarked on a journey that would leave us broken.
Before Ray was born, I went to the hospital four times over reduced movement in the womb - and on the fourth occasion they hooked me up to the monitor to hear Ray's heartbeat.
I could hear his heart but I couldn't feel him move.
Every now and again there was a swoosh sound almost, but I just couldn't feel the movement and I was made to feel that I should be feeling him move.
Earlier, the midwife had made a comment about how I may suffer anxiety and I should see my doctor due to the amount of times I'd visited for reduced movement.
During the scan I got a bit emotional thinking maybe the midwife is right and I do have anxiety, so with that the midwife arranged a scan to reassure me all was OK for the following day.
I told my husband not to come as it's just a check-up and the midwife was very reassuring and talking me through the scan, but then she just went quiet and said she was going to get another midwife to check something.
My heart sank. I couldn't help but think that I've lost my baby.
They turned to me and said the scan is picking up insufficient blood supply from the cord to the placenta and I would need to go up on the assessment unit for bed rest and be monitored for the next few weeks, but everything was OK.
I was given a private room and hooked up to a monitor, and I was told to lay on my side, but Ray's heartbeat kept disappearing.
Within five to ten minutes a doctor came to see me, looked at the records from the machine and left.
A midwife then came in and explained that I needed to go to delivery suite in a wheelchair, but I couldn't quite understand why I was going up there.
I was numb, on my own and scared.
I was given a private room and then a surgeon came in and explained that Ray was getting distressed and he would be born in about two weeks before explaining the odds of survival and saying it would be best to get my baby to 29 weeks, if possible.
Jonathan joined me and I was hooked up to a monitor, but within 30 minutes the doctor was back saying it looks like the baby will be delivered by the end of the week.
Then within an hour she came back and said the baby is going to be delivered today and I was wheeled down to surgery for a C-section at 8.20pm that night.
I tried to remain strong and positive and not show my fear to my husband. I could see the fear on his face.
When Ray arrived, there was no cry - the moment I dreamt about. We were told it's a boy, then the quietest of cries appeared all for a split second.
I had a quick glimpse before he was taken down to the NICU. I was put in a delivery suite and a neonatal doctor came up and gave me a photo of our little boy, saying he weighed 900g and was currently on a ventilator but OK.
My husband went to see him at 3am but I had to stay in bed due to the C-section.
I was told I'd need to try and express milk at this point. I was emotionally exhausted and felt I failed him.
It was all my fault. I didn't know if he'd survive each hour.
I finally managed to see Ray at 11am, almost 14 hours after he was born.
That's when I saw him in the incubator, although I could barely see him through the windows due to all the condensation from the heat keeping him warm.
He had a cyst on the brain, oedema, chronic lung disease, a hernia, low iron and constant blood tests. It was really horrible to hear him let out a tiny cry when they took blood from him..
He required blood transfusions, and regular ROP (retinopathy of prematurity) examinations.
I was kept in for five days post-surgery and I was given my own room, but I could still hear all the mums bonding with their newborns, and the babies' cries through the night.
But the moment I was discharged my world fell apart some more.
I had dreamt of leaving the hospital as one happy family, beaming with pride and excited to start parenthood.
This clearly wasn't the case.
On discharge I went to the NICU, said bye to Ray and "I'll be back soon". I was scared something would happen to him when I was gone.
We couldn't cuddle him until he was a week old. It was only a couple of minutes. It was the moment I'd be longing for, just to touch him, smell him and feel his little fingers and toes.
It's heartbreaking when they have to go back into the incubator as you don't know when the next time you could get a cuddle.
Walking through those hospital corridors, I cried uncontrollably.
Jon and I travelled back and for every day, twice a day, not leaving until 11pm at least so we could be with Ray as much as possible.
Jon had to go back to work after two weeks off, so I'd walk five miles to the hospital every morning and sit by Ray's incubator watching every beep, every moment from 10am to 6pm.
Jon would pick me up, we'd go home have a quick bite to eat, spend time with our dog and go back in for 7 or 7.30pm till late.
We did this every day for three months, even when I got poorly I'd visit him. I had my appendix out while he was in the unit and I still walked the corridors to be by his side.
The pain I felt was nowhere near the way he felt.
We felt like the days merged into one and then it started to become normality. NICU was our second home.
It was a traumatic experience and I started to suffer hallucinations and flashbacks.
I'd hear the sound of the alarm monitors. I'd wake in the night to the sound of the oxygen tubes.
Once, I thought my husband was laying on Ray's tube blocking the air flow, and I even woke up thinking there was all baby sick over me.
When I hear the sounds of the hospital monitors I have flashbacks to the those moments where Ray needed help to breathe or a tap to get his heart rate back up.
Every time the phone rang when we were at home I'd panic, thinking it was the unit calling.
I constantly think about those babies who sadly didn't make it. My heart breaks for those families.
Over a year on I couldn't cope with the guilt of everything. I felt it was all my fault, that I put Ray through all that pain. In August 2018 I finally spoke to my GP.
There isn't enough support for mums and dads who have been through what we have been through. The only support we had were the incredible nurses of NICU and our families.
The nurses understood. We could laugh with them, cry with them, share our achievements and our not-so-good days.
Questions need to be asked on discharge of how you're feeling, there should be leaflets on what emotions you can expect, and contact numbers for people you can speak to for help.
There should be a review with a GP a few months after birth and mental health support from a health visitor when they visit you at home.
If I could offer any advice to parents-to-be it is to please listen to your instincts. Don't let anyone make you doubt yourself. If I didn't have that scan I know Ray wouldn't have made it.
To those going through something similar, remain strong. Be there for each other even when days are hard. It's an emotional roller coaster, if you're not offered help then please ask for it.
I have been supported by the charity Bliss, which supports parents of premature and sick babies, and last year I ran the Cardiff half marathon to raise money for the NICU team at the University Hospital of Wales where Ray spent his time.
I will constantly give back to the team that saved Ray's life over those three months in hospital.
The moment I walked into the NICU for the first time was a wave of emotion. It was a place I didn't know existed - it was like a different and scary world.
Alarms were going off, the nurses were really busy, parents were at their babies' bedsides and there was a row of incubators.
Seeing Ray hooked up to machines and wires everywhere is something that will stay with me forever.
Now almost two-years-old, he has fought so hard, although his immune system is weaker than a child born full term he is incredible and continues to fight off any infections that crop up.
Ray has been back into hospital a few times with bronchiolitis and croup, and about four days before his first birthday he had an operation to remove the hernia.
He is doing really well, we are back and forth with consultant check ups and the usual health checks but he doing amazing for his age and hitting his milestones for his corrected age.
I don’t feel I’ll ever overcome the world of NICU. I now have anxiety.
I have days where it all come flooding back, things we have seen that no parent should go through.
I am emotionally scarred and so is my husband.
I look at Ray and think how incredibly lucky we are but I can never get over what we through.
