It’s been a rough week. The twins have been going through a little bit of a rebellious phase, or as my husband says, “They are three.”
I’ve just been feeling like a rotten mommy because when the kids aren’t behaving, who else is there to blame?
Last night, I was having a discussion with some friends about my complicated pregnancy, and was reminded just how far we’ve come. It made me a bit nostalgic, and I thought I would look back at our CaringBridge site to give myself a reminder. While now seems like a rough time, it is nothing compared to how they started off in life.
This post is not meant as a plea for sympathy, but rather to show you what our lives were like when our boys were in the hospital. I also want to bring parent’s hope that are in that spot right now. There is eventually light at the end of the tunnel.
No matter how terribly the boys misbehave sometimes, they are here. They are healthy, and they are loved.
There is always hope, even when the doctors give you none.
Here is my entry from 2012.
70 days in the NICU.
I think it’s finally getting to me and really taking a toll. I’m completely and utterly exhausted. Physically my body needs to sleep for at least a week, and mentally, I don’t even know where to begin.
I’m just feeling a little down today. I guess it’s because I’m so tired, and also because breastfeeding didn’t go very well yesterday. My big guy had 3 Brady’s, which means he stopped breathing and heart rate dropped. My little guy did OK, but he had just had his eye exam, which didn’t go well. His ROP has gotten worse and he is borderline for surgery. The eye doctor will make a decision next week Wednesday.
So, the boys are officially 35 weeks today. Which means, 10 weeks or 70 days in the NICU. 70 days of driving back and forth to the hospital, circling the parking garage for a close spot, making the dreaded walk across the skyway to pick up the phone and ask to be let in to see my boys. 70 days of walking down the hallway that smells of disinfectant and antibacterial lotion, scrubbing my hands to my elbows until they’re cracked and bleeding, then saying a quick prayer before entering their dark room. 70 days of checking on their weights and asking how the boys are doing. Holding my breath and hoping for good news. 70 days of beeping and alarms and ventilators and tubes and wires and breast pumps.
And no matter how awful I feel or tired or sad, I know my boys have it worse. I know they are getting the best care possible and the nurses and doctors are amazing, but they are not even supposed to be out of my body yet. My body couldn’t take care of them and help them to survive and grow, so they had to be taken out way too early. My placenta couldn’t feed them both, and I couldn’t make the decision to sacrifice one for the other, so the outside world was better for them. They got taken from their warm, safe haven to be put in artificial wombs made of plastic. They have had to endure poking, prodding, IV’s, blood draws, blood transfusions, surgeries, tubes down their throats, tubes down their noses, X-rays, MRI’s, ultrasounds, eye exams, and countless other procedures. I know they probably won’t remember this experience (I pray they don’t) but I will forever remember and hope this is the worst they have to experience.
I love them so much and would trade places with them if I could.
Sorry if this post is a little dramatic or depressing, but I guess I just hit a wall today. Tomorrow I will knock it down and do it all over again, but for tonight I just need to sleep and forget for a few hours.