Today is the eighth anniversary of my micro-preemie son’s homecoming. Eight years ago we walked out of the hospital and into our home. It marked the completion of one of the hardest times in our lives. It was the beginning of a journey of love and hope and appreciation for all that we never dared to dream he would be. We celebrate this day every year, knowing we’ve been given a blessing that not all NICU parents get to experience. We honor those who helped save his life by sending cards of thanks and encouragement. And yet today, eight years later, I find myself thinking of you…the mom who watched me bring my baby home.
You were standing in the hallway outside the NICU door. I’d never seen you before, but then again, being in an 88 bed NICU distributed among many rooms, we rarely saw other parents. You were standing with your husband (or boyfriend) and when you saw us, carrying our six pound, six-month-old son in his carseat, you burst into tears and buried your face in his chest. He instinctively moved himself between you and us, physically trying to shield you from your pain. It was subtle and obvious all at the same time.
You weren’t much taller than me. You had dark hair. You were maybe a little younger than me. And in that split second, our moment of joy brought you a moment of pain. I should have hugged you. I still don’t know why I didn’t. I wish, with all my heart, that I had. I think I was fairly certain that if I took one more step toward that NICU, some doctor would come and tell me that there had been a mistake, that he couldn’t go home, that we would have to leave him as we had done a hundred times before. I think I meant to smile at you. I can’t remember if I did. But I want you to know that I saw you.
Eight years later, I wish I had taken a moment to acknowledge your pain. Eight years later, I wish I had taken a moment to hear your story. Eight years later, I wish I had taken a moment to tell you ours…if anything, to give you hope. You see, our son was/is a micro-preemie. Born at 25 weeks gestation, weighing 1 lb. 13 oz. We transferred to Los Angeles from our local hospital, four hours away, when he needed emergency surgery. He had been plagued with “preemie problems” and our NICU stay had been anything but predictable. We’d been through two surgeries, countless close calls, and had been told more than once that he might not survive. He struggled to learn to eat and to breathe and to survive. But he did survive. And now he thrives.
In naivety, I remember hoping, in that moment, that your baby was a “grower-feeder.” The reality was, of course, there were no “grower-feeders” at that hospital. All the babies there were in life threatening situations, including yours. I wish I had told you that this agonizing moment for you was the first time he’d been in his carseat. That this moment was his first time wearing pants. That this moment was our first time seeing him without a wire or tube attached. I wish I had told you that while no part of this journey had been easy, there had been many moments of immense joy and excitement. I wish I had taken the time to tell you what someone had taken the time to tell me…that a NICU mama’s job, your only job, was to hope for your baby.
I’ve often wondered about your baby. Were they a micro-preemie too? Were they a boy or a girl? Had you known you’d end up in the NICU or was all of this, like for us, a complete surprise? I’ve often thought about you too. Do you remember that moment? Did you wipe away those tears, walk back into that NICU, and hope (maybe against some staggering odds) that this would be you someday? Did you get to bring your baby home?
So, if you were the mom standing by the door of room 303, on 3 West, by the Giraffe Elevator, at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles, on Tuesday, March 16, 2010 around 3:30pm…I want you to know that I saw you. I saw you and your pain. I saw you and a small glimpse of the journey you were on. And I hope, I hope, I hope, that you are celebrating homecoming anniversaries too.
With Hope,
Sara Bollinger
