Every Now and then I reflect back on my pregnancy with my son and his first month of life in the NICU. I still remember coming home, sitting in the van in the driveway after shopping and not feeling well. I remember walking into the kitchen and feeling that first gush and sighing because I had been having issues this pregnancy. I was annoyed. With the second gush, I knew something was wrong and I was pretty sure I knew what was happening. My water had just broke and I was only 26 weeks pregnant with Sebastian. The ride to the hospital was very quiet. Only later did I learn my husband had no idea that I could stay pregnant with Sebastian. His first niece had been born early and passed after only a few days. He spent the whole drive thinking he was going to lose his son, I, on the other hand, being the neurotic researcher I am knew that it was possible I could stay pregnant (although unlikely) and that even if I went into labor, Sebastian was far enough along that he could survive with fairly good odds. But neither of us felt like talking, both of us simply lost in our thoughts. Occasionally, I would vocally cringe as my amniotic fluid continued to gush all the way to the hospital. I felt embarrassed as I got into the wheelchair at the hospital soaking wet through my coat and a towel. Although I knew so much, I really knew so very little of what was ahead. It was Sunday, January 8, 2012.
The next several days were a whirlwind of information, of plans, of waiting with bated breath. It was more than likely that I would not last long and would go into labor anyday now. But in the meanwhile, I laid in a hospital bed, feeling my son move only the slightest bit and learning that every little bit of fluid was crucial. I watched and listened every time they hooked me up to the fetal monitors until I knew his heartbeat better than my own. I fretted over every hill and valley in his heart rate, until one nurse explained it to me. I was eternally grateful to here. Even when it was 3 in the morning and I was half asleep through my monitoring, I'd ask the nurse to leave the volume so I could hear Sebastian's heartbeat. I was scared. I did not trust that anyone else would notice if his heart rate went too low (I was later found out this is absolutely not the case, when I went into labor and his heart rate did dip, a flock of nurses came flying into my room at lightening speed). My husband's work was kind enough to allow him to work from the hospital as much as he liked and they started a pitch in to help him with meals. My mother in law came in from Iowa to take care of my older two kids so that my husband could still earn a living. We all fell into a sort of trance of schedules. Tuesdays and Thursdays my husband worked at the hospital because those were ultrasound days. Every other day he came to visit after work. Often going home in the wee hours. Thursdays and Sundays my girls came to visit. Every day brought me closer and closer to the 34 week mark when my OB told me we would schedule an induction because at that point the risk of infection is greater to me and then baby than delivering.
For almost 7 weeks I laid in that hospital bed, although I had the luxury of walking around my room, showering, a daily wheelchair ride, a weekly antepartum support group to break up the monotony. I watched too much television, struggled through one of my hardest classes at school (I was attending school online for master's in history), slept too much, and sometimes I would bury my head in the pillow and just cry. Occasionally, I had to move to the bathroom so no one would hear. I missed my children, my bed, and even my dogs (what was the world coming to). Sobbing uncontrollably, desperately miserable I would sit on the toilet and try to remember what it was like to sleep in my own bed next to my husband. Once in a while I would call him in the middle of the night in tears, just to hear his voice. He would listen and comfort me with his soothing voice and for a few more days or a week I would be okay. And to be honest, on occasion, I just wished I would go into labor already so I could move out of this state of limbo my life was in.
I was 32 weeks when my OB (who has a wicked sense of humor, I might add) walked in and asked "Do you want to go ahead and schedule your induction or should we just keep letting you go because you are doing so well I think we can try letting you go past 34 weeks?" I cringed, torn but the last week and a half I was losing it and I honestly felt like I had done my duty by making it to 34 weeks like a good girl. I felt guilty admitting that I wanted to schedule the induction. But my OB knew I was done, knew I was ready and thus we scheduled Sebastian's birth for Thursday, March 1, 2012.
Suffice it to say, we did not quite make 34 weeks. The Monday after we had scheduled my induction, my OB came in to see me like normal and laid his hand on my stomach asking if anything hurt, I shook my head no but he noticed me cringe slightly. "Is that tender?" I shrugged my shoulders, "A little." He looked at me reading my face ( I saw him almost every day for 49 days, he had me pretty well pegged at that point) and he said to me and my nurse, "Let's start her on an IV." The contractions started later that night.
By Wednesday night, despite all attempts to stop labor by 10:30p.m.it became obvious, Sebastian was coming. Honestly, I was relieved...and exhausted. Three days of on and off labor and interrupted sleep had sapped me and my poor husband. Nurses rushed in and out of my room. An entire NICU team rolled into my room with all sorts of equipment. I was too exultant to be scared yet. I sighed with relief when they placed my epidural, ecstatic that I was nearing the end of this portion of my journey.
My son was born at 3:03 AM after 2 pushes. He was 4lbs 11 ounces and beautiful. The steroid shots they gave me the first two days in the hospital had done their job and he required no breathing support. But it was all so strange. I had had two normal pregnancies and deliveries. This time they whisked my son over to the NICU team and I waited, holding my breath, to hear my son cry. Parents will tell you how beautiful the sound of their children's first cry is but for those of us parents who experience a premature breath, that breath takes on a meaning exponentially more dramatic. In that moment, a precious new life hangs in the balance. And you wait to see if the world will crash in on you. He cried, after what felt like a few minutes and they let me hold him for a moment. I smiled at his tiny face, tiny features at the fact that he did not have a tube running from his nose or mouth (yet). Every moment laying in that hospital room had brought my son to this perfect moment of fruition. They whisked him away to NICU, my husband having asked if I was okay enough for him to go with Sebastian. I had nodded. There was a bevy of wonderful nurses to tend to me after the rigors and messiness of labor. My husband had been through it once with me. Our son needed him now since I could not be.
Every now and then, even though he is 2, Sebastian still wants to be rocked to sleep at night and I remember when I first held him up in his NICU room. My husband and I were too scared to take him out of the incubator on our own. He was so tiny. We still have pictures of the board in his room with all his measurements, a reminder of where he began, of how far we have come. He had an IV in his head running antibiotics and a tube in his mouth to feed him (later it would move to his nose, where he became notorious for yanking it out). He had little stickers attached to him and monitors that beeped if his heart rate or oxygen levels went too low or too high. It was astounding and frightening. I had just seen this little boy bundled in a blanket with nothing attached to him, seeming perfectly fine. But with preemies it is never that straightforward. At 33 weeks and 3 days, he was fairly premature, not micropreemie by any stretch, but he still should have been in my womb for almost another 7 weeks. Thus he needed some time to develop a few skills he did not have yet, such as maintaining his body temperature, learning to breathe regularly, and the nemesis of all parents of premature infants, he had to learn to eat. No one problem puts parents on a wilder roller coaster ride than trying to get a preemie to nurse or drink a bottle. One you get permission to try a bottle or breast, every feeding you wait with bated breath hoping they have eaten the required amount of milk or formula. A bad day can set you back a week in escaping the NICU. Because after a couple weeks in the NICU, you become supremely comfortable negotiating all the wires connected to your baby. You learn that the cafeteria has better food than when you stay in a room, you become amazed at just how tiny your little ones are, and you become obsessed with washing your hands and finding a lotion that will restore your painfully dry hands. NICU is a bubble. For almost 4 weeks, I was there every day with my son. Still watching monitors, checking his weight on the board every morning when I would walk in the room, hoping I had made it in time for his bottle of the morning. The every 3 hour schedule of the NICU became schedule. It becomes somewhat comfortable and soothing having this routine. But at night I would go home to spend some time with my husband, my girls, and yes finally sleep in my own bed and I would feel this empty space in my life where my son belonged. And at the moment I wanted nothing more than to have him home with me.
Sebastian ate and grew and his time in NICU was unremarkable thankfully. We were so lucky in so many ways. He came home on March 19, 2012. I cuddled him, loved him, stared at him in all his tiny beauty. I never felt so blessed as when I held him. I stay up at night just staring at his face, remembering how delicate the balance had been. How lucky I had been. The odds are overwhelmingly that you will go into labor pretty quickly from when your water breaks. The outside number is usually a week or so. The odds are something like 1 in 5 that you will carry the baby longer without going into labor. Painful as my hospital bedrest was, every day was a gift for my son. Thus, when my son now almost 2, cries in the middle of the night for Mama, I go into his room and hold him like a baby, sing to him and nuzzle his white blonde hair til he falls asleep. I still have my moments when he drives me crazy and days where I long for the hour he goes to bed at night. But I never, ever forget what a gift he is. I have four kids and believe me I love them all but there is always something almost intangibly special about premature babies. It can take years for the effects of prematurity to reveal themselves. Every milestone they make becomes a victory over the odds. You learn to take a deep breath and then just breathe. At almost 2, Sebastian has hit all his milestones. The physical ones tend to align more with his adjusted age. But that little brain of his is going full force and showing no signs of developmental issues. He knows his numbers, letters, colors, shapes, and he's speaking in three and four word sentences. I don't feel that need to take a deep breath as often anymore. All I want to do is hold him, love him, and watch him grow and never forget that it is often the unexpected that brings us the most precious gifts. I have learned so much from my son. So much that I no longer begrudge the journey. Whether it was God, karma, fate, or just plain dumb luck my son is a miracle. The most wonderful, beautiful and unexpected miracle.
