I’m sitting here in my fancy dress, enjoying the peace and quiet of the rarely-witnessed double nap (my younger two) as we kill some time before heading out to a busy day of wedding festivities for my BIL’s big day. My husband and oldest son are both in the wedding so they are with the bridal party taking pictures and I’m not sure how long this little respite will last…
As my mind wanders, I look at the clock–10:32am. One year ago at this very moment, I was laying on a cold operating table, having an almost out-of-body experience as the doctors cut into me, rooted around, and pulled my baby from his warm, safe, nesting place an astonishing 10 weeks sooner than we both would have liked. As I lay there in a numb sort of trance, trying to keep my thoughts from crushing me, I heard what sounded almost like a kitten’s cry for help and I was slapped back to reality realizing this sound was coming from my baby. In a near-panic, I breathlessly asked the anesthesiologist, “Is that the baby?!” “That’s the baby,” he nearly whispered back to me. My heart almost burst knowing that he was breathing. He was whisked off where he’d meet his team of NICU doctors before he’d meet his mommy and daddy. Just then I started to fade out a little bit, trying to tell the anesthesiologist that my head felt funny. That’s when the doctors stopped talking about their weekend plans and the room got eerily quiet…again, I tried to exit my body and keep myself numb enough to get through whatever was happening and pretty soon the hush lifted, the doctors were once again discussing their after-hours plans, and I knew the baby and I were both in the clear–for the moment.
Laying in that recovery room, numb from the waste down and feeling exhausted and scared, all I could think about was the tiny baby whom I still hadn’t met, and how he was faring without me. I sent my reluctant husband away from me to go look after our son, who weighed in at just over 3 pounds–quite large for a 30-weeker, we were told. Those first 3 weeks were (pardon my French) hell as we went through the ups and down of the NICU–our son needed a pretty hefty surgery at 6 days old. He had lost a full pound with all of the issues he was experiencing. Sending your 2 pound baby into a 5-hour general-anesthesia-bathed surgery is not for the faint of heart. Barely released to face my own recovery from the emergency C-Section, I hobbled back to the hospital and sat alone at my son’s bedside (as hubby had to stay home and care for our two toddlers), waiting for them to wheel him down to surgery. I am oh-so-grateful to my pastor for unexpectedly showing up and sitting with me the ENTIRE day from the time my son went into surgery until late that night when he was out, had spent two hours in the recovery room, “woke up” (I say this lightly, because he was still very groggy when I finally got to see him but most of the anesthesia had worn off), and I was able to see him. My son spent 41 days in the NICU (but who’s counting?) and was able to come home several weeks before the initially projected date. Those 41 days were some of the most difficult I’ve ever endured. Not being near him 24/7 broke my heart but my toddlers needed me, too, and their lives couldn’t stop turning for over a month. The baby was receiving fantastic care at Maria Fareri Children’s Hospital near our home. I learned to let go of the fact that I couldn’t be by his side every moment and to trust in the care of his NICU team. I focused on getting my milk supply up for his debut at home and I made the most of every single moment I was able to be with him in the NICU. We did a lot of kangaroo care and attempted to breast-feed as soon as my son learned to suck and swallow. Those precious moments alone with him in the NICU are engraved on my soul forever.
So…anniversaries. Sometimes they are happy. And sometimes they are sad. Sometimes your body or your mind or your subconscious will remember them before your conscious mind does. From the moment I woke up this morning, I was an emotional basket case–bursting into tears in the shower, getting emotional as I dressed my sons for the wedding, crying once hubby and oldest were out the door and the other two down for naps. In that moment when I sat down with my cup of tea and glanced at the clock (10:32am), it all hit me like a ton of bricks. Yes, there’s a wedding today (I’m not a typical wedding cryer…not even at my own), and yes, it’s my son’s first birthday today. But I knew this emotion was coming from a deeper place. The anniversary of the day my son and I will share until the end of time. An anniversary that, luckily for us, has a happy ending. But for many who have this same experience, it doesn’t. And that makes it a different kind of anniversary. On this day, I now feel that I share in the heartache with all those mamas, too. It’s a unique “club” to be in–one that certainly isn’t chosen but that chooses you.
I count my blessings tenfold today and every day. I send out love to those mamas who don’t get to squeeze their little bundles on their first birthdays. I lift up my son in love and humble gratitude for his unwavering spirit and his infectious smile. And I embrace this anniversary as I would any other. I accept what it was at the time, what it is today, what it will be next year and what it will be every year to follow.
Happy anniversary and happy 1st birthday to my third little light. May you always shine bright, sweet boy! ❤
Five Little Duckies 