I believe I've mentioned this before, but my children's lives did not begin in the most auspicious way.
I will forever remember every moment of the day they were born. I was a little over a week into my forced maternity leave and one week into my bed rest. So far that week, I had doctor appointments nearly every day. Monday and Wednesday, I had already gone to the hospital to undergo non-stress tests. That day, Friday, my day was jam packed. I had the high risk doctor first thing in the morning, then the gestational diabetes nurse, and then a pulmonologist appointment in the afternoon. My breathing had become so labored that I literally could not breathe if I got out of bed and I could not take a deep breath at all.
A week earlier I had been diagnosed with mild
pre-eclampsia--we're talking just over the line from "normal" into "pre-eclampsia." That morning, I went to my appointment at the high risk doctor. My blood pressure was soaring. They could not get it to come down and it was determined that my pre-eclampsia had gone from borderline to severe. In fact, I was teetering on eclamptic. After testing my blood pressure for the 4th time, I was told to go to the hospital. I figured I was, once again, going in for a non-stress test. And then my doctor said two little words..."It's time." In that moment my world stopped. I looked at her in disbelief and said, "As in I'm having the babies?" She said yes, that I was having the babies within the next 48 hours. She just had to decide which hospital I was going to--based on her prediction about how sophisticated a NICU my children would need.
I was told to go sit in the waiting room until I knew where to go. I went into the waiting room and cried. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I still had 7 weeks until my due date, and I figured I'd have had at least another 3 weeks before my babies were born. I expected them to be early--twins typically are--but I never expected them to be this early.
After we were told I could deliver at the local hospital (which was the one that I wanted to deliver at), we left the doctor's office in a stupor, went home, gathered our stuff, and got on our way. I got to the hospital around 11:30 that morning, checked in, and began our crazy ordeal. My doctor said that he could give me steroids to help the babies' lungs mature or he could take them out that very day. Considering I couldn't breathe and he was afraid I'd have a stroke or pulmonary embolism, he preferred to take them out that day. I nervously agreed. I was told my c-section would be around 4pm. I was just waiting for another woman named Jessica to go first. Jessica was in a similar situation--her baby was also 7 weeks early (in fact, she was due the day after me) and had developed
HELLP syndrome, so she was also having an emergency c-section. Jessica was scheduled for a 3pm c-section. I would be next.
After being hooked up to the worst drug in the universe--magnesium sulfate--I waited. Jessica's c-section got pushed back, and so I didn't go in for mine until 6pm. I remember being wheeled down. I had never been more scared in my entire life. The only highlight I remember was as I got wheeled through the recovery area, someone pointed at me and said "Twins!" I realized it must have been Jessica. I pointed back and said, "Jessica!" Little did I know in that moment that 18 months later, Jessica and I would still be dear friends.
I remember getting the shots in my back to numb my lower half. I remember my husband coming in the room. I remember the drape that was laid too close to my face, making it hard for me to breathe and causing me even more anxiety. I remember my husband trying to talk to me, and me just wanting to close my eyes and disengage from what was going on. I remember "feeling" the birth--you feel pressure, but not pain. I remember the first time my children cried, I remember seeing them briefly before they were whisked off to the NICU, and I remember my husband nearly passing out for the second time that day--the stress hit him hard as well and neither of us had eaten all day.
The next thing I knew my babies were gone. I was empty, doped up and feeling pretty sick. I was on that vile drug until 4pm the next day. I was finally moved into a room on the maternity ward at that point. I still hadn't seen my babies since they were born. I was still basically immobile. Finally at 7 that night, I was wheeled to the NICU to see my babies. I was so not prepared for what I saw. My son, all 4 lbs 1 oz of him, was hooked up to numerous machines, tubes and wires. I was told that he doesn't like to be touched, so I have to just put a finger on his chest. I couldn't even see my daughter. My wheelchair was too low to see her in her isolette. Although she was (and continues to be) the smaller twin at just 2 lbs 13 oz, her lungs were better developed, so, while she was still hooked up to wires and tubes, she was hooked up to far less than he was.
It was strange. I really expected that once the babies were born, a switch would flip and I'd feel like a "mom," however that was supposed to feel. But, that didn't happen. In fact, I felt like me. A lot more tired, battered, beaten up, uncertain, and scared, but still me. Here I was, staring at these two little people that I made and carried, who were essentially strangers to me, and wondering what to do next.
Only a NICU parent could understand what it is when someone comes to visit you in the hospital, asking you how it feels to be a parent, and you smile and say all the right things (like "It's wonderful!" or "Great!"), but on the inside you're thinking, "I don't know." Only a NICU parent gets that you barely know your babies--in fact, the NICU nurses probably know them better than you do. You fear that the babies won't know that you're "mom" or "dad," and that they won't bond with you. In fact, I remember choosing birth announcements right after my kids came home from the NICU. One of the birth announcements had a section where you could describe the personality of each twin. I looked at it and thought, "I don't know how I'd answer that." They were already a month old. No one but a NICU parent understands that type of heartbreak as you feel that you've missed out on some essential part of your child's life.
Only a NICU parent could understand what it feels like when you are making medical decisions for your babies, who, in reality, don't feel like your babies at all. Like I said, it's hard to get to know them and bond with them when you only see them for a few hours each day and never, ever have any private time with them. After all, they're hooked up to wires, tubes, monitors and can't be taken out of the NICU.
Only a NICU parent could understand the sheer pain of having to make the decision of whether to go home or stay in the hospital for one more night--knowing that either way meant you leaving the hospital without your babies. The only moment that was worse than that pain was the moment that I actually went home. I apologized to them and cried. I'm not a crier. Ever. But in that moment, I cried. (In fact, a year and a half later, I still tear up every time I think about it.) You feel like the worst parent in the world, like you're abandoning your children and leaving them in the care of some stranger so that you can go home and rest. If they would have allowed me to stay the entire time my babies were in the NICU, you'd better believe that I would have. While I knew that I couldn't, and I knew that I had to go home, get the house ready for them, rest, and heal from my c-section, I couldn't believe that I was leaving them behind.
Only a NICU parent will understand that you were more tired when your children were in the NICU than when they actually came home. Yes, you sleep less when your babies are home, but you have the security of knowing that their struggle to simply survive outside the womb is over, and that they wouldn't have been discharged if they weren't ready to come home. So, even though you got to sleep for longer stretches while your babies were in the NICU, and your sleep was quieter because there were no babies in your bedroom, you couldn't fully rest. Not until those babies were home in your arms.
Only a NICU parent will understand the highs and lows that visiting your baby in the NICU can cause. You feel guilty each day when you leave there and you constantly question whether you did something that led to these circumstances or if you could have done something to prevent this outcome. You constantly blame yourself for this predicament, even though, rationally, you know there was nothing you could have done differently. On the other hand, those few hours with your babies in the NICU are the highlight of your day. My husband and I would drive home after our nighttime visit--our favorite visit because visiting hours were over and we got some quiet time with our babies--and just talk about our kids. We would talk about what they were doing that day that they hadn't done the previous day. We would talk about how they looked, how much they ate and how many ounces they gained. Each day we would take pictures and on the drive home, I would look at the pictures, because, honestly, that was the only way it felt real. I would stare at them and whenever I felt down, I would recall their little faces and know that they were waiting for me to visit again.
Only a NICU parent can understand how those nurses become a part of your family. As I said earlier, they know your babies better than you do for the beginning of their lives. They teach you what your child needs, wants and does. In order for the NICU experience to run as smoothly as possible, trust your nurses. Get to know them. Talk to them. They understand what you're going through and they're there to help. My husband and I knew our NICU nurses so well that we can still tell you about their families, their likes, and their dislikes. In fact, we still keep in touch with some of them and we will always hold them fondly in our hearts and memories.
Only a NICU parent can understand the overwhelming desire to bring your babies home, but the overwhelming fear of being responsible for someone so tiny and so fragile. The day we brought our babies home, my husband and I were over the moon with joy. We got home from the hospital, put them in their bouncy seats and literally just stared at them. For hours. They slept. We had no idea what to do with them. Both of us were too nervous to turn on the TV for fear that would make us seem like inattentive or bad parents. We didn't know their cries for hunger, wetness, or exhaustion yet. We literally just sat there and stared. Within a few days, we all got to know each other and got a routine going, but as overjoyed as we were to bring them home, every little thing about taking care of them scared us.
I'll leave you with this one thought...when I was alone in the hospital the first night on the maternity ward, I reached out to a friend from college that I hadn't spoken to in years. However, we are facebook friends and I remembered that her daughter had been born early and was in the NICU. Her daughter looked amazingly healthy several months later and my friend looked happy. However, I was alone, scared, sad and feeling lost. I asked her how the heck she survived the NICU and she gave me some very wise words...in fact, I still pass those words of wisdom on to any mom I know who has a baby in the NICU. She said, "While you're living it, it will seem like a lifetime. But, one day soon it will all seem very far away." She couldn't have been more right. It seemed like the hours and days crept by while my babies were in the NICU. But, when we got them home, those 4 weeks seemed like ages ago--they still do.
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