(no subject)
Happy Birthday to my baby girl. You are three years old today.
All day today, I've been thinking about where I was at this time three years ago.
When I woke up, briefly, at 4:45 am, I thought about how that was the time I woke up three years ago to go to the bathroom and two minutes later was screaming for Daddy to call the doctor and get me to the hospital because I was bleeding lots of bright red blood and knew there was something terribly wrong.
When I got up for the day, I thought about how I was already in the hospital at that time, not sure what the day would bring.
When I was frosting your cake, I thought about how I was trying to get some work done on my laptop while lying in bed because I'd just been told that I wasn't leaving the hospital until you were born and I expected that to be at least a few weeks and hopefully closer to six or seven.
When your party was in full swing, I thought about how at the same time three years ago, I was having an ultrasound by one of the pre-eminent perinatalogists in the country and how he told me I had a very small bit of placenta lifting up from the uterus, but it was nothing to worry about and I'd have to have compression stockings up to my mid-thighs so I didn't get blood clots because I wasn't getting out of bed for the foreseeable future.
When we were packing up after your party, I thought about how this was the time when the nurse came in and told me that she'd seen on the monitor that I was having an abruption, and she had called my doctor who was on her way there to perform the c-section that would hopefully save your and my lives.
When we got home, Daddy and I were resting and quietly talking about how at that time, I was being prepped for surgery and he was in the room we'd been in all day, alone, in his paper scrubs, waiting for them to call him to come into the OR.
Half an hour later, I thought about how that was the precise time that they took you from me, dried you off, gave you some oxygen, wrapped you up, walked you over to my head and said "Hi Mommy!" and then whisked you away. I wouldn't see you again for another four hours. Daddy went with you and I was alone in the OR, with two surgeons working on me, an anesthesiologist keeping me numb and calm, and several nurses. A few minutes after Daddy left, I couldn't swallow and the anesthesiologist made me squeeze a ball in my right hand. He told me afterward that if I hadn't been able to do that, he'd have had to have intubated me right then.
At six, I thought about how I was in Recovery, and my cousin sat on the foot of my gurney, perhaps on my legs. I couldn't feel it, but I laughed as I teased him about it. Under the teasing and laughing there was a deep worry and almost a refusal to think about where you were and what was happening. There were about ten family members there in the hallway and they only let two or three in to see me at a time. When my aunt came in, she told me congratulations on the arrival of my baby girl, and the sound of it felt wrong to me. This was nothing to be happy about! You were supposed to be in my womb another two months. This was nothing to offer congratulations about. The congratulations should have been saved for when you came home. THAT was a happy day.
Right now, I was still in recovery, starting to get the feeling back below my ribs, freezing and itching from the drugs that had been injected into my spine. I still didn't know how you were and I wouldn't get to see you for another two hours, after everyone had left and they wheeled me into the NICU on my gurney. The entire time we were in the NICU I never saw them do that with another mother. It's not very sanitary. I found out from the nurses in the NICU later that they did that because I had lost a lot of blood and they were worried that I wouldn't make it.
Two hours from now, I was wheeled into the NICU to see you. You were so tiny. I'd never seen a baby that small! I was able to touch your toes and talk to you for a couple of minutes before they took me to my maternity ward room. You were intubated because you'd had a little respiratory distress and you needed surfactant to help your lungs stay inflated. You had an umbilical line, heart monitors, and a temperature monitor attached. You looked like a fetus, because that's what you really were. A 32-week fetus.
And today, you are three years old. You're a funny, sweet, delightful child who takes joy in everything around her. You adore your sister and I love seeing the two of you play together and hug and kiss each other. You're small for your age, both actual and adjusted, but you make up for it with enthusiasm and sunshine. You're hitting all your developmental milestones on time or even early. People frequently ask me how old you are and marvel when I tell them because your verbal abilities make them think you're much older. You have curly hair, which I never expected! You charm and delight everyone you meet.
I love you my darling baby. Happy birthday!
All day today, I've been thinking about where I was at this time three years ago.
When I woke up, briefly, at 4:45 am, I thought about how that was the time I woke up three years ago to go to the bathroom and two minutes later was screaming for Daddy to call the doctor and get me to the hospital because I was bleeding lots of bright red blood and knew there was something terribly wrong.
When I got up for the day, I thought about how I was already in the hospital at that time, not sure what the day would bring.
When I was frosting your cake, I thought about how I was trying to get some work done on my laptop while lying in bed because I'd just been told that I wasn't leaving the hospital until you were born and I expected that to be at least a few weeks and hopefully closer to six or seven.
When your party was in full swing, I thought about how at the same time three years ago, I was having an ultrasound by one of the pre-eminent perinatalogists in the country and how he told me I had a very small bit of placenta lifting up from the uterus, but it was nothing to worry about and I'd have to have compression stockings up to my mid-thighs so I didn't get blood clots because I wasn't getting out of bed for the foreseeable future.
When we were packing up after your party, I thought about how this was the time when the nurse came in and told me that she'd seen on the monitor that I was having an abruption, and she had called my doctor who was on her way there to perform the c-section that would hopefully save your and my lives.
When we got home, Daddy and I were resting and quietly talking about how at that time, I was being prepped for surgery and he was in the room we'd been in all day, alone, in his paper scrubs, waiting for them to call him to come into the OR.
Half an hour later, I thought about how that was the precise time that they took you from me, dried you off, gave you some oxygen, wrapped you up, walked you over to my head and said "Hi Mommy!" and then whisked you away. I wouldn't see you again for another four hours. Daddy went with you and I was alone in the OR, with two surgeons working on me, an anesthesiologist keeping me numb and calm, and several nurses. A few minutes after Daddy left, I couldn't swallow and the anesthesiologist made me squeeze a ball in my right hand. He told me afterward that if I hadn't been able to do that, he'd have had to have intubated me right then.
At six, I thought about how I was in Recovery, and my cousin sat on the foot of my gurney, perhaps on my legs. I couldn't feel it, but I laughed as I teased him about it. Under the teasing and laughing there was a deep worry and almost a refusal to think about where you were and what was happening. There were about ten family members there in the hallway and they only let two or three in to see me at a time. When my aunt came in, she told me congratulations on the arrival of my baby girl, and the sound of it felt wrong to me. This was nothing to be happy about! You were supposed to be in my womb another two months. This was nothing to offer congratulations about. The congratulations should have been saved for when you came home. THAT was a happy day.
Right now, I was still in recovery, starting to get the feeling back below my ribs, freezing and itching from the drugs that had been injected into my spine. I still didn't know how you were and I wouldn't get to see you for another two hours, after everyone had left and they wheeled me into the NICU on my gurney. The entire time we were in the NICU I never saw them do that with another mother. It's not very sanitary. I found out from the nurses in the NICU later that they did that because I had lost a lot of blood and they were worried that I wouldn't make it.
Two hours from now, I was wheeled into the NICU to see you. You were so tiny. I'd never seen a baby that small! I was able to touch your toes and talk to you for a couple of minutes before they took me to my maternity ward room. You were intubated because you'd had a little respiratory distress and you needed surfactant to help your lungs stay inflated. You had an umbilical line, heart monitors, and a temperature monitor attached. You looked like a fetus, because that's what you really were. A 32-week fetus.
And today, you are three years old. You're a funny, sweet, delightful child who takes joy in everything around her. You adore your sister and I love seeing the two of you play together and hug and kiss each other. You're small for your age, both actual and adjusted, but you make up for it with enthusiasm and sunshine. You're hitting all your developmental milestones on time or even early. People frequently ask me how old you are and marvel when I tell them because your verbal abilities make them think you're much older. You have curly hair, which I never expected! You charm and delight everyone you meet.
I love you my darling baby. Happy birthday!