Over the past few weeks, I have alluded to my children being born prematurely, but I haven’t really given details. Here’s the short (or shortish) version.
My water broke at 31.5 weeks and I was rushed to the hospital. This was not good news, as we were hoping to keep the kids cooking for about 8 weeks longer. After 5 days of in hospital bed rest, the doctors had no choice. The kids were done cooking and coming on out.
At 32 weeks and 1 day, my beautiful son and daughter were born. Tiny. Helpless. They both cried immediately, thank goodness, but were whisked directly to the NICU, where they would spend the next 7 weeks. Their weights weren’t the real issue; they were both born just under 5 pounds. This is enormous for their gestational age. No wonder my water broke, I was huge and they were running out of space.
The problem was that they suffered from so many of the age related body immaturity issues that preemies so frequently encounter. Apparently, the sucking reflex comes at 34 weeks, so they couldn’t eat. And even if they could, the energy required for the eating process burned more energy than the food provided, so they were hooked to feeding tubes. My son had an air bubble in his chest, so day 2 he had a chest tube and got his first stitch. There is still a fold of skin on the side of his chest. I call it his brave scar and kiss it whenever I can. (These days, he objects a bit. Ahhh….)
They also suffered from breathing issues, where they actually forgot to breathe, so they were hooked up to breathing monitors so that we would know when it happened, in addition to being given oxygen. To say that it was scary would be an understatement. Day after day, I went to the hospital, looking at my little science experiments. It was the furthest I had ever been from them and it hurt like hell. I can’t tell you how many times I cried as I left for the day.
When they finally came home, they still had the monitors, but all the immediate issues seemed to have passed. Within weeks, the monitors were gone and they have not looked back.
Now, nobody looks at my kids and sees preemies. They see healthy kids and those that know how to judge child age accurately almost always guess close to correctly. They run, jump, play, scream, laugh, and learn like any other child.
But I KNOW that my kids are special. I am undeterred by the fact that my view is entirely biased and tainted by unconditional love. I know that my kids are the bravest and strongest kids in the world. I have no doubt that they saw the life they had ahead of them and they fought like hell to be healthy enough to enjoy it full force. I know that they saw their Mom, Dad, extended family and medical caretakers smiling at them… and they sucked up all that positive energy to grow up and outgrow their medical issues.
Sometimes, in the midst of a “long” day, I look up at our mantle, where I keep their first pictures. The pictures are horrific, but I don’t take them down. The kids are red and blotchy, with masks and breathing tubes. Science experiments gone wrong. It’s sort of scary, actually. But I don’t take them down.
Why not? Because it reminds me to be grateful.
When the kids are running around my legs, stepping on my toes, while I try to make lunch… I can feel grateful that they have the strength and coordination to move their bodies so successfully. When they are “dying” of hunger, I can feel grateful that their bodies are growing at such a successful rate that they feel such a hunger. When they scream and wail, yelling “mama” and “cookie” at ear splitting frequencies, I can feel grateful that their lungs now function normally and I don’t have to worry about this behavior making them pass out or putting them in any medical danger at all. I can feel grateful that they have the intelligence to be learning to talk and communicate so successfully. When they are pulling on my legs, both kids wanting to be picked up at a moment where I need two hands to complete a task, I can feel grateful that their emotional development allows them to want the comfort of Mommy at a time when they feel distress.
Overall, I can feel grateful that anything and everything my kids do (both positive and negative) is developmentally normal. My concerns, as their mom, are not medically founded, even if they are emotionally reasonable. I mean, really… what mom doesn’t worry?
Thank goodness… I can feel grateful.
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