Inspiration

Feeling down, feeling sorry for myself, feeling overwhelmed by challenges... I drove past a church with one of those message boards out front:

"In the middle of chaos, there is hope".

Talk about timing!

Transformation Central!

Change is coming, and it feels good!

The little one is getting it- going to sleep on her own, not quite sleeping through the night, but working on it. Weaning has started, and while it isa challenging, trying time, and an emotional time (mentally and hormonally- I'm all over the place here, people!), it is also a hopeful one. I'm starting to see a future with a tiny bit of time carved out for ME. I'm seeing evenings knitting in front of the TV, time spent with my husband, EXERCISE, more time to write (!)... OK, I don't want to get carried away, but the possibilities are enticing.

The most enthralling prospect is the possibility of actually sleeping through the night one day soon... for the first time in more than two and a half years. SERIOUSLY! Now that I'm getting closer to having some semblance of sleep, I'm realizing the extent that sleep deprivation has eroded my life. Always feeling foggy, very often angry, run-down, impatient... I'm euphoric at the prospect of sleep.

In related transformative news, I finally used the box of hair color that has been sitting in my bathroom drawer for months. No more grey! That in itself is an Easter miracle! And go myself to the nearest barbershop for a trim. I'm moving towards new woman territory!

OK, I know it is sacriledge to blog about the mundane- what you eat, drink, errands- the boring stuff that makes up everyday life. But at this point in my life, this stuff is the stuff of possibility and excitement.

I will never forget March 28th

Two years ago today, we brought V home from her 2 month stay in the hospital. I learned a lot from the experience, although I am resentful that this knowledge came at the expense of my baby, and our family. 2 years later and I still can't wrap my mind around "everything happens for a reason". Don't ever tell that to a parent of a child on life support.

So many memories come flooding back, although truth be told, they were never far from my mind. The first time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Learning to wash our hands properly. Waiting by the incubator every day for doctors to round. The crash course in medical lingo: gavage, CPAP, nasal cannula, G-tubes, hep-lock, PDA, PFO, hydronephrosis, ROP, room air, parenteral (not parental) nutrition, NG tube, bradycardia or bradys... Changing the smallest diaper- a preemie size diaper nearly falling off of the tiniest bottom imaginable. The tears. The tears. The tears.

Every day brought new emotions which I won't stoop to compare to a roller coaster. Because a roller coaster is a fun thrill ride, and it's voluntary. This was hell on earth, albeit with moments of pure beauty and grace. She gained 3 ounces- wonderful! Then, machines beeping, a team rushes in, has she stopped breathing? Is her heart still beating? Starting out in Bay 1- the most acute cases. Moving to bay 6- victory, she's getting better! Pumping breast milk every 3 hours, crying in the pumping room, divided by a cloth partition from the other moms. We could all hear one another crying, and often that was enough to set the rest of us off too. We were as supportive as we could be, considering we were all in need of serious support ourselves.

Occasionally I'd make a friend- another mom who had a baby clinging to life. The first woman I spoke to in the NICU was so nice, and I envisioned us getting our babies together for playdates when everyone was OK. Then he died, which I found out from behind that cloth partition in the pumping room. She was sobbing to her mom, discussing the donation of his organs. Pumping must have been sheer torture. I cried silently and thanked God it wasn't our girl.

Then there was the family who always brought the nannies to see their preemie, rarely ever the mom. I was disgusted. Did they not realize the gravity of the situation? Did they not care about their baby as I cared about mine? I later discovered that the reason the baby was born early was because the mom developed cancer which had completely metastasized. They had to take the baby early because the mom was dying. She wasn't visiting him in the NICU because she was in her own hospital room, and it wasn't on the maternity ward. Nothing is as it seems.

My rage was channelled at parents of other babies in V's bay. The parents of twins who tried to convince the doctors to keep their babies longer because of the childcare, even as they got dressed up, hair/makeup, and went out to dinner every night. The poor foster baby who was evidently in the NICU because of his mom's drug abuse. The dad who spent the whole time by his son's incubator on his cellphone, even though cellphone use was not allowed.

Then there were the families who broke my heart: the teenaged mom who didn't have money or a clue, the poor immigrant family who barely spoke English, the young woman who couldn't handle the stress of the hospital and went back to work 3 days after her daughter's emergency birth. The Orthodox baby who hadn't yet been named, for religious reasons. I kept begging them, in my head, to name him. For some reason I couldn't handle him not having a name.

Every baby was either doing worse or better than ours, and both brought up powerful emotions. Devastation for the families who had kids worse off. And raging jealousy of the families who were pulling through relatively unscathed. Whenever a baby was discharged, the baby was wheeled out in an old fashioned carriage, and everyone (within reason) stopped what they were doing to clap and say congratulations and good luck. It was like a mini parade, a little streak of joy marching through the NICU. Every time I watched a baby go, I clapped louder than anyone, but I also cried harder too. I wanted that to be us so badly. And when it finally happened, I of course couldn't stop crying.

For weeks after V was born, I resisted adding the NICU phone number to my speed dial. I guess it was denial- if I don't accept the number, maybe I won't need it. But we did need it; we called at regular intervals during the rare hours that we weren't at the hospital. And now, 2 years after we left, I still haven't deleted it from my cellphone. I scroll through to find a number sometimes, and stop at the NICU number, contemplating deleting it for once and for all. But I haven't been able to bring myself to do it.

I resent the fact that my 4 year old thinks that all babies start out with tubes down their noses and that they all live in the hospital for months. But the experience has not been without gratitude. Our understanding of the fragility of life is profound now, and although we forget sometimes, like everyone, we always come back to an awareness of HOW. LUCKY. WE. ARE. I think the reason that I don't delete the phone number is that it serves as a reminder of the many amazing doctors, nurses, therapists, etc who devote their lives to taking care of the most fragile among us. And the knowledge that these people are out there brings me intense hope. And when I think back to the shocking generosity of my family (my mom stayed with us for nearly 4 months that year and was inordinately helpful), and my friends (dressing as maids and cleaning my apartment? the memory brings tears to this day) I can definitely see the silver lining.

How will we celebrate our baby today? By doing what every other family does: cajoling the kids into actually eating their dinners, breaking up squabbles over toys, and dressing my daughters dolls in the tiny preemie clothes that my little one wore in the first tenuous months of her beautiful life.