When Blythe Whitaker brought her newborn son home from StMarys Hospital in Bristol, the whole world seemed to shrink down to something unbelievably tiny just a few ounces of hope and a heart that was barely ticking.
The doctors had said, gently, Its not fatal, but its serious. Keep calm and try not to let him cry too much. Blythe nodded, slipped a finger into his tiny hand, and he squeezed it back like he was promising to fight. But the days that followed proved just how hard that fight would be.
Every night the baby would wake up screaming, first a whimper, then a fullblown wail. When he cried, his little chest would heave, his lips would turn blue, and I could feel my own heart stop. Breathe, love please, I whispered, rocking him. Mums right here, its all right. Nothing seemed to help.
George, my husband, was there at first, but then he started pulling away. Youre spoiling him, he said wearily. If you keep holding him all the time hell never learn to settle on his own. I snapped back, George, he isnt being difficult, hes sick! He waved his hand and shut the bedroom door behind him.
Nights grew longer. I was exhausted, sometimes just sitting in my armchair with the baby in my lap, listening to every creak in the house as if it were a thunderclap.
One dawn, halfasleep, I felt something soft brush my feet. Our cat, Misty, padded over, halted by the cot and, with a tiny meow, leapt onto the edge. No, no, you cant! I tried to grab her, but she was already curled up next to the baby, nudging his chest with her nose.
I froze. His body relaxed, the crying stopped, his breathing evened out and his cheek pinked up. Misty purred low, almost like a lullaby. I pressed my hand to my lips. A miracle, I whispered.
When George walked in, the scene left him speechless. Are you out of your mind? he shouted. A cat on the baby! Youll choke him! I whispered back, Look, hes finally sleeping for the first time in days.
He just stared, then slammed the door shut. That night I didnt dare drift off. I sat there, watching Misty gently lie on the little boys chest as he breathed. Something had shifted; the purring felt like a lifeforce.
The next morning, when George headed off to work, I placed Misty back beside the child. She snuggled up, and the baby smiled. Youre our little nurse, Misty, I said, grinning.
Within a few days the improvement was obvious. He stopped gasping, his colour held, and each evening when Misty settled on his chest he drifted off peacefully. Neighbours, of course, couldnt understand.
Aunt Ivy, ever the busybody, shook her head. Blythe, thats unhealthy! Cats spread germs! Id never let you do that. I nodded, but inside I was fuming.
Sister Marina was even harsher. Are you mad? Youre risking his life! Cat hair causes allergies! I replied quietly, If it werent for her, he might have suffocated. Tension crackled between us.
Weeks passed and the little boy grew stronger, his cheeks pink, his breathing steady. Even the doctors noted the change. But Georges patience snapped one evening when he saw Misty back on the cot. Enough! Either the cat goes, or Im out! he roared. The baby wailed, but Misty nudged his nose, and his cries faded.
I sat up straight and said softly, Then go, George. Shes not just a cat, shes his medicine. He stood there, stunned, turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him. I felt no tears Id done what I thought was right.
A month later came the checkup. I clutched my sons hand while DrPalfrey listened. Pulse is normal, breathing steady remarkable, he smiled. Blythe, thats incredible! His hearts getting stronger. Anything changed at home? I hesitated, then told him about Misty. He chuckled. You know, many dont believe it, but a cats purr does lower stress and can even regulate heart rate. Perhaps your Misty saved him.
I laughed through tears. When we got back, George was waiting. He knelt by the cot, where Misty again nestled against the baby, and whispered, Take good care of him, alright? I stood by the doorway, watching the soft purrs and even breathing. All the fear, doubt, and arguments had melted away, leaving a quiet that was filled with love working its gentle magic.
That night I wrote in my diary, Not all miracles are seen. Some just purr.
