Dear Preemie Mom

Dear Preemie Mom:

I see you. I see you, scared and confused, as you have to leave your baby behind in the hospital because he was early and he needs a lot of help. I see you taking notes as the doctor explains all the machines and sounds that surround your tiny, sweet baby. I see you trying your hardest to take it all in - all the medical jargon, all the dates and times and schedules - but your eyes keep wandering back to your baby in her isolette as you wonder when you will be able to hold her.

I see you driving to the hospital day after day, determined not to miss a second with your little one. I see your shoulders slump as you prepare yourself for another long day of visiting your baby and then leaving him behind once again.

I see you as you get to take your baby home - a time filled with such joy and excitement, and also a little bit of fear. You wonder if you will be able to take care of her like the doctors could. You wonder if you will be enough.

I see you a couple months down the line, rejoicing over having your baby with you at all times but becoming frustrated that your baby needs so much attention all the time. Doctors, specialists, therapists - it seems like your life now revolves around when the next appointment is and how long it will take you get there. You try to remind yourself that you should be grateful, because your baby has had to fight harder than most to even make it this far. But that doesn't always help your frustration. Sometimes it even adds to it. Why did your baby have to fight so hard? Why did this happen to your family? You ask yourself these questions every day but no answer seems right.

I see you at the birthday party for the child of a friend, a child who was born around the same time your own child was due, before they came so early. I see your smile, which is genuine, but it isn't the same smile it used to be. Because while you are happy for your friend and her child, it hurts to see how behind your own child is, and what a long way he has to go.

I see you crying late at night, wracked with guilt and worry and anger. If only you had been able to keep your baby inside a little longer...if only you had insisted the doctors take a second look at the scan... if only you hadn't had so much caffeine or sugar or whatever else you think could have contributed to your baby's prematurity. I see you blaming yourself, wondering what you can do to right this terrible wrong.

I see you decline invitations to playgrounds, to lunch, to so many places that first year. You're so afraid of your little boy getting sick. The doctors told you that this first winter was crucial, that you should not go out unless you absolutely had to. So you sit alone with your baby, knowing that it will all be worth it in the spring.

I see you carefully pack your diaper bag - yours isn't always like other people's diaper bags. You need a lot of hand sanitizer, extra oxygen tanks, some masks that keep germs away. You venture into the grocery store like a soldier approaching a battlefield - assessing risk, wondering how quickly you can finish your task, praying that when you leave, everyone will still be healthy.

I see you stammer and flounder when someone asks you how old your baby is. You know if you give the real answer that there will be so many questions, and you are tired of questions. But to you, giving any other answer feels like a disservice to your child, like you aren't acknowledging all of the hard work she put into coming into this world. So you split the difference - sometimes you tell people the real age, and sometimes you don't. It changes every time you are asked.

I see you wondering if you are the kind of mother your baby really needs. You think that someone else would be much better suited for all of this. All of the therapy and special arrangements that have to be made - you think you aren't cut out for this. You don't know how you will make it through. You look back to the life you had before - maybe you used to work and now you have to stay home. Maybe you want to stay home but you have to work. Either way, it is not the life you planned for yourself. It is not how you imagined having a baby would be.


I don't have answers for you. I wish I did. I want answers for me, too. But I want you to know that I see you. I see you, and you are not alone.

Sincerely,

A Preemie Mom

On Your First Birthday

Joshua, today is your first birthday. How is that possible? It seems like there is no way a year could have passed since I first laid eyes on you, but I have checked and rechecked and re-rechecked the calendar and apparently it's true. I still have trouble believing it but I guess the calendar wouldn't lie... it is from Chick-Fil-A, after all.

As this day has been approaching, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say to you. I thought of telling you the story of everything that happened, but you already know it - you lived it. I thought about imparting some deep wisdom to you, telling you the secrets of life that would help you as you grow. But it turns out I don't know that many life secrets and some things you just have to find out for yourself. So I thought for a while longer and decided I would tell you some things that I learned over this year, things that only you could have taught me. 

See, I am not what you call a "researcher" or a "planner" or "someone who is ever ready for anything more than five minutes ahead of time." I leave that to the more sophisticated people around me (who are constantly texting me to ask if I am running late yet again). And I wasn't worried about being prepared for parenthood. I might be a last-minute person but I do good work in that last minute and I knew everything would work out fine if I stuck to my tried-and-true method. 

Imagine my surprise when I found out that the last minute to plan had arrived much faster than I expected. I think that was the hardest part of finding out you would be early - I was just starting to wrap my mind around the fact that I would be a parent. It still seemed surreal. And then suddenly I was going to be a parent in a matter of hours. I remember from the moment the doctor told me you would be born it was as if I was watching my life unfold on a giant screen, like I was aware of what was happening but so sure it couldn't be real. I even told your dad that, moments before you were born - "Maybe this is just a dream," I said. He assured me it wasn't and offered to pinch me to prove it but I declined. Don't let him pinch you, either. 

And then you were there. Less than two hours had passed since we had found out how sick you were and how much you were struggling, and there you were. You didn't cry, because your little lungs didn't work very well yet. The doctors had told me not to expect you to cry because of how early you were but that was the only thing I knew about babies - they cried when they were born. I was sure you would cry. I kept asking your dad why you weren't, and finally concluded that the doctors had done something to prevent you from crying so you wouldn't be upset. What can I say; I was on a lotttt of drugs, man. But I remember every moment after that with vivid detail. Dad got permission to snap a picture of you and show it to me. He watched them work on you and Dr. Manar took a minute to explain what was happening, and then he came over to explain it to me. I heard the words but they still didn't seem real. Dr. Manar brought you to me and said I could give you a kiss. I did, right on your little nose. And then they took you to the 2nd floor, where we would spend the majority of the next four months. 

So my plan not to plan didn't exactly work out, but, really, no amount of planning could have prepared me for this. And I think that is the biggest thing I have learned through this last year: Plans fall apart. Nothing is perfect. God's plan is different from my plan and His plan is the one you want, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. For all of my lack of preparation, I still like to be in control. I like to know what's going to happen and what my role will be. When you arrived, I didn't have any training. I never took a class. I didn't know how often to change your diaper. I had to learn on the job. But even if you had been born two weeks late, that would have still been true (although the diapers might have been easier to use - yours were reaaaaally small). That's what parenting is: swearing your kid will never watch television and then five years down the road having the Disney Channel schedule memorized and sighing in relief when it's time for Mickey Mouse. 

I discovered that no matter how hectic things got, I could handle it. Some days were a lot harder and some days were pretty easy. But for you I could do anything. I could learn medical terms and ask questions even when I was afraid and accept help from people that I had never met before. You were a pretty solid motivation for putting my own doubts aside and working hard for you, to make sure you had everything. 

I learned just because something isn't the best, that doesn't make it the worst, either. There is a whole world of in-between where things can just be okay. I tend to work in areas of black or white, never grey, but you showed me that when it comes to parenting, especially parenting a NICU kid, grey is pretty much your life. 

You taught me that it's okay to question God. That it doesn't make me less of a Christian, mother, or person. That God not only understands our pain but feels it right along with us. There were days when I opened my mouth to pray and nothing would come out. I was too mad, sad, plaid, whatever, to form any words. And I wondered if that meant I wasn't as much of a Christian as I thought it was. But that's not how it works. God knows my fears and doubts before I do and asking Him questions is okay. 

I found out that there really is a silver lining to every bad situation. You made for a pretty spectacular silver lining. I could (and still can) sit and just watch you for hours, silently cheering every time you moved your little hand or peered up at me with one eye. It was those moments, the tiniest victories, that filled my heart with joy and love for you. You helped me make friends with other parents who had kids just like you, kids who struggled and lived in a world of doctors and specialists and medicine, kids who I now get to see grow and play and who I am so excited for when they accomplish something. The parents became a part of our family as we grew together and rooted for each others' children, taking genuine delight in every good update. These are the people who are in the "club," who know the frustration and anxiety of being a NICU parent. 

You showed me that a total stranger can show the biggest kindness. You helped me see that I was surrounded by friends and family who love me and would do anything to help. You revealed the amazing skills of the NICU nurses, whose kindness and patience with both of us made all the difference in the world to me. I learned that no matter how bad things got, I was never alone. Someone was always praying for you, even someone who had never met you and never will. It is the people who prayed on your behalf, who dropped off gift cards and hugs, who sat in the waiting room for hours and hours - these are the ones who I will never forget, because they made it possible for me to find the strength to continue even when things seemed too tough. When I think of how your grandparents drove overnight in a storm to see you, how your other grandparents stopped by nearly every day to check on you, how your aunts stayed up late to talk to me all night and how your uncles volunteered to help us move and prepare for you to come home, I know without a doubt that our little family is loved so, so much. 

Joshua, you made me a mother. You changed me from someone who thought she understood what unconditional love meant to someone who knows exactly what it is. You have filled the last year with love and laughter and joy and smiles. Yes, there were sad moments, but I wouldn't trade a single one of them. You have taught me so much in only a year and I hope that I can teach you something during your lifetime to repay the favor. Daddy and I love you so much and we are so grateful to know you. Here's to the next year of life lessons from our favorite micro-preemie. 

Cowboy Debbie rides again

I smashed two spiders the other day.

And then I got a tissue and flushed their lifeless little bodies down the toilet. Muahahahaaaa.

If you're wondering why this is a big deal, let me describe my usual routine when I find a spider:

1. Scream

2. Scream again

3. Find a giant cup

4. Approach evil spider with the same caution one would use to approach an atomic bomb or Britney Spears

5. Pray that Daniel will spontaneously arrive home from work even though it's only 10 in the morning

6. Call all of my friends

7. Try to convince my friends that this spider has a gun and a knife and a "I Heart Violence" t-shirt

8. While screaming to an empty room, quickly place cup over spider

9. Run like the wind

10. Tell Daniel about the spider the instant he walks through the door and hide while he takes care of it

It's a system that's served me well for years. When Daniel and I were dating and he hadn't been to my house for a couple of days, he would come over to find several cups strewn throughout the apartment, waiting for his swift and merciless hand of justice. I just bought disposable cups, and he got an early glimpse of what our marriage would be like. Win-win.

But the other day, as I was folding laundry - fine, watching reruns of Friends - and that brazen little arachnid strolled so confidently across the carpet, I thought, after all we've been through this year, I can't even summon up the courage to squish a tiny (HUGE), harmless (it had eight fangs) spider? That's silly. So I got my shoe and took care of business. 

As I was trying to stop hyperventilating from the traumatic events I had just endured, ANOTHER spider walked into the room, all "She'll never kill two of us."

Wrong, evil spider. He got smashed, too, and joined his friend on the Great Porcelain Ride to the sky.

It's a little thing, to kill a spider. Not exactly life-saving or heroic. But I realized that the spider massacres were just an example of the strength that I've found in myself recently.

I was blessed with a very capable and loving husband. He's patient, helps me with everything, and fixes countless things for me. It got to the point where I wouldn't even try to fix something myself - Daniel was right there, so what was the point? Don't get me wrong; I'm very grateful to have a wonderfully reliable husband. But I rely on him a lot. For everything. He doesn't mind. But I did. 

I am not the same person I was on February 21st. The moment I heard the doctor give Joshua's time of birth, I was different. I was a mom. And while at first I continued to rely on Daniel as I always have, I slowly found myself becoming more independent, more willing to see what I was capable of.

Don't get me wrong - I need Daniel. A lot. Like, a lot. But now the playing field has been evened a little. As much as Daniel helps me, I want to be able to help him. That used to scare me. I'm not a go-getter. I'm not the ladder-climber. I'm content to stay behind the scenes and let other people direct me.

Or at least I was. But things are different now. Now I have someone else who is relying on me to direct him. Joshua only has Daniel and me to speak for him at the hospital and for the rest of his life (and of course his family. Don't be mad, Mom). So am I going to let someone else tell me how to speak for my son, or am I going to figure it out for myself, with Daniel instead of just waiting for him to tell me? 

My friend Laura told me that a few weeks ago, she was praying for Daniel and Joshua and me. She said she asked God why He had allowed this to happen. She didn't expect an answer right then. But she got one. 

She told me that God told her that He allowed everything to happen because He thought I could handle it. That floored me. God would certainly know that I'm not a strong person. Why would He think I could handle anything like this? I can't even pick out shoes by myself. People told me I was strong and I never believed them. 

But now I do. At least a little bit. I have changed. I can be strong. I can be a mom. And I'm starting to see that maybe that was God's plan all along. He knew I had strength in me. I just needed a reason to use it. It's not easy and certainly not what I would have chosen myself. But I suppose I can add that to the long list of reasons that I am not God.

If nothing else, I am at least a lean, mean, spider-killing machine.