From the moment of Jacob's birth we found ourselves removed from all the experiences enjoyed by first time parents. The labour had been slow and had not progressed well. The interpretation of the monitoring equipment by the midwives, the reassurances of the doctor administering the epidural - gave us no reason to believe that these events were any different to those being experienced by prospective parents every day. But the relief of the epidural was short lived.

Jacob & his brother Guthrie

Now we hung on every word, waiting for more reassurance. But it was not forthcoming. A second blood sample showed that Jacob's oxygen levels were dangerously low. There was a sudden change of pace and the room was filling with other people who we had not seen before. People called away from coffee breaks and smoking rooms and normal routine, called in to try and save a life before it had even begun. And then I was on a trolley, air rushing past me. I really don't think I appreciated the seriousness of the situation as I lay on the operating table trying to sign a consent form. Nick had been left in the corridor watching me being wheeled into the theatre and then minutes later Jacob was wheeled past in a mobile incubator to be told that his son is being taken to the Special Care Baby Unit.

"My son?" he asks in confusion. "But we are having a daughter". It seems that the pregnancy scan had missed a vital piece of baby's anatomy.

The next thing I remember is waking up with the Paediatric Registrar at my bedside. I can only think to ask if my baby is going to live. The Registrar's unusually piercing blue eyes hold my gaze momentarily and he answers "I don't know" and then seemingly he has gone.

The first time we saw Jacob he was inside an incubator. Unlike most of the babies in special care he already seemed to fill the Perspex cocoon - a legacy of his Sotos syndrome, as yet undiagnosed. He had intravenous lines in his arms and feet and umbilical cord. The breathing pipe for the ventilator which was ensuring his chest continued to rise and fall was taped onto the side of his face and secured in place with the ties of a woollen hat. The monitoring equipment was the only thing making any sound. A "tock, tock, tock" when all was well. "Ping, ping, ping" when it was not.

The hardest part at this stage was watching our baby in a comatose state. He had started fitting soon after birth and was being medicated to control this. This rendered him unconscious and whilst we were told that he would regain consciousness we were quietly jubilant when there was a flicker of involuntary movement. The lack of movement caused his feet to swell to twice their size and his face to become puffy.

We were allocated a private room to stay in but listening to the incessant crying of newborn babies in the adjacent maternity wing was a kind of torture and there was a constant unspoken sadness between us.

It was during this time that we met Dr Day - Jacobs Consultant, he was to become the main focus of our stay and we quickly came to appreciate his diplomacy, warmth and honesty.

In the second week Jacob suddenly deteriorated and so afraid were we of registering his birth and his death at the same time that we looked to the bible in our room for inspiration for his name. We had no contingency plans for naming a baby boy.

Relatives, who under normal circumstances would have waited until baby was home to visit, joined our vigil in the special care unit, which had become our world. Further blood tests showed that Jacob had bacterial pneumonia which subsequently turned to septicaemia. All his functions were now compromised.

We were told, quite plainly, that the combination of oxygen starvation at birth and more profoundly, the effect of the septicaemia could cause brain damage or cerebral palsy. We knew it was impossible for the Consultant to make predictions but the one question we did ask was "Could he die?" The answer was an unconditional "yes". The lesson we learnt in that moment has stayed with us. Try and live for that moment and do not look for guarantees. You will probably have a fruitless search.

The "Domestos" of the antibiotic world, as Dr Day described it, bought Jacob back from the brink and after two weeks his eyes opened for the first time. One of the nurses took a Polaroid picture of the moment. And then, still attached to all the lines, we were allowed to hold him for the first time. As he began to make progress we were encouraged to wash and change him, still inside his incubator. It may sound cold, but we were, to a degree, estranged from normal emotion. The turning point came when he came out of the incubator in the third week and was moved to a cot in one of the ante-rooms in special care. Then I was able to start feeding him with the breast milk that I had been expressing and freezing. The next step was to spend a night with Jacob in the parents' room with him at the bedside. Two or three times in the night I woke with a start and strained to hear his breathing, hardly daring to look, still fearing the worst. But the next day we did go home and the bonding process that had been denied us began in earnest.

Fast forward to December 2005. Jacob bounces confidently down the corridor of the paediatric unit of our local hospital to take a seat next to his favourite doctor. "Hello Dr Day" he chirps. We follow into the room holding his new baby brother. "And how are you today Jacob?" "Very well thank-you" "Well I only wish all my patients said that when they came to see me" retorts Dr Day.

A lot of family history seems to have passed in this room. Over the years we have visited specialists to discuss almost every aspect of Jacob's being - hearing, sight, physiological development and speech. But it is here, with Dr Day, that we meet every few months to contemplate all our issues as a family, to seek advice and talk about our experiences, to laugh about events that could probably make us cry if we let them. But most importantly we celebrate every milestone that Jacob reaches and take time to think how lucky we really are.