101. Part II.
On 6/14/19, I was scheduled for a C-section to deliver our son. With Elliott, I wasn’t given a choice about labor and delivery - it needed to be a C-section as their were too many concerns with her heart’s ability to handle a vaginal delivery. At first, this bothered me significantly - I wasn’t allowed to even attempt to deliver Elliott the old fashioned way. Thought for sure, I could try with my son! However, the further along in this pregnancy, the more evident it became that a C-section was the right path once again. Ok, whatever, my babies came out the sunroof not the door. I have bigger fish to fry.
In a planned C-section you have an arrival time assigned and the prep is a choreographed dance. Everyone has their parts - what to do and when. I was 39 weeks + 1 day and my body was verrry ready to exchange the way it held my son - inside for outside. Elliott was born at a whopping 3 lbs 12 oz, and my boy was significantly bigger. The weight of him pressing against my organs and attempting to kick his way out was something I hadn’t experienced with Ellie.
In the prep room, in my crunchy gown with an IV in my hand, we waited for the team to escort me to the operating room. I expect that typical second time mothers in this situation are flooded with eager anticipation to meet then cradle their bundles of joy - an event mere moments away.
I felt slightly different.
While I absolutely wanted to meet and cradle my son, my shoulders bounced uncontrollably with fear as I cried. My repeated attempts to stop failed - every pause was soon met with a play. I could not free my mind of thoughts of my daughter. In this same situation - same room, same gown, same IV - 2.5 years prior, we knew we were about to meet our daughter (briefly) before she would be whisked away to the NICU. We knew of her Down syndrome, cleft lip and palate, heart complications, and potentials for other conditions that taunted us in ultrasounds. Despite uneventful ultrasounds with my son, what if he was destined for the same path? Would he cry when delivered? Would he struggle to breathe? Would he have any birth defects? Would he be whisked way to the NICU? Would he get to lay on my chest or would I stroke his cheek through a mobile incubator for seconds before officially holding him 6 days later?
I can’t go through it again. I can’t.
The medical staff arrives ready to wheel me into the OR, Brad to join soon after my epidural is administered. I use the nurses as distraction from my thoughts - talking about anything and everything other than the reason we are all together.
Accompanying my incessant yammering are grand hand gestures - I tend to talk with my hands.. and arms.. and eyebrows.. and well, everything in addition to my mouth, My left hand comes up swiftly and makes contact with something just behind me. What was that something? Oh glad you asked - it was my Anesthesiologist. The doctor I should be hugging not harming. I hit him directly in his face as he was prepping drugs that allow me to feel only numbness as my intestines are removed and then shoved back into my body. (Geez Aubs. Real smooth. Reeeeeeal smooooth.)
He was cool with the accident. I was mortified, apologetic, and full of jokes to cover my embarrassment… most of which included my pleas for him not to take out his anger at me via lack of drugs!
Brad joins soon after I beat my doctor and sits on the black, spinning stool next to my head. Everything after this moment and before he arrives is kind of a blur. All I wanted, all Brad wanted, was to hear our baby cry. As if to hear him cry, meant he was perfect and everything would be ok.
I feel tugs and pulls behind the blue curtain blocking my view. My doctor says “Ok, here he comes”…
“He’s here!”…
We hear the tiniest of whimpers…
Brad and I look at each other…
Then, the loudest wail I’ve ever heard in my life is projected into the room - reverberating off walls. A cry so piercing I’m certain all glass, within close proximity, shattered.
My eyes exploded with liquid joy. A brand new babies first cry. My brand new babies first cry - a sound so beautiful and so coveted for so long.
They take him to the warmer in the room with a camera above him so that I can watch his first moments on the TV monitors at my head. Brad goes over to introduce himself to his son. My son is placed on my chest, where he belongs, minutes later.
Calvin Jay is 8 lbs even, 19 inches long and was born at 1:51 pm. He is extremely expressive, thinks his tongue is fascinating, and an absolute miracle.
Despite having a second child, I’m not a second time parent. I’m a one-and-a-half time parent.
Today is 100 days with our baby boy. This post is called “101. Part II” because it was at 101 days into Elliott’s life that we were finally able to bring her home from the NICU. (Wouldn’t it have been supremely lucky if today was 101 days with Cal too?? Oh well, 100 is literally as close as it can come and “100. Part II” doesn’t make any sense as their isn’t a “100. Part I”.… so we’re rolling with “101. Part II”. I appreciate your adaptability on the one day differential; you’re such a good reader.)
100 days of experiences with Cal that we didn’t get with Ellie. There isn’t a word in the English language that adequately describes my elation for having my newborn with me while he is still a newborn. Believe me, I’ve scoured thesauruses.
The other day I was doing laundry. Calvin was laying on a plush cloud play mat with various dangling baby objects peacocking above him - begging for his attention. Attention he was not giving them. Instead, he was focused on me. Where I was going and what I was doing. Why was I not holding him or sitting directly next to him making funny faces and telling him how wonderful he is?!? Sensing he wanted my immediate presence, I grabbed the basket of warm clothes from the dryer and sat on the floor next to him, folding large t-shirts and yoga pants - my uniform.
He is 10 weeks old on this particular day. I watch him drift off to sleep as I fold. Then, it occurs to me he might be cold as the air purifier hums out a cleansed breeze next to our spot on the carpet. I lay a warm shirt, fresh from the dryer, over his squishy little baby body. He coos and settles into a deeper sleep.
Minutes later he startles, stretching his arms and fingers out wide as the Moro reflex causes newborns to do. His eyes open with confusion. He sees me softly smile at him, and closes his eyes again having the knowledge he is safe and with his mama.
I watch him.
I watch his eyes flutter underneath his lids.
I watch his hands grasp the warm shirt covering him.
I wonder what he is dreaming about.
Often, before Calvin and much more so after him, I question what type of Mom I would be if Elliott was not my first born. So much of being a first time parent becomes a lesson for future child rearing. You right your wrongs and adjust your approach with each subsequent child.
I have always known what a detriment it was for Brad and I to not have our newborn daughter home with us during her newest days. Newest weeks. Newest months. Now, haven taken care of my newborn son for 100 days, I spend time thinking (worrying) about how detrimental it was to Elliott. I never covered her up with warm laundry. I never watched her drift off to sleep, offering a soft smile, without the sounds of alarms buzzing, bright bulbs flickering, and nurses rushing around mere feet away. She likely never felt safe, despite her Dad and I being there.
To add to my list of worries and wonders, I wish I would’ve done more for Elliott. Now, being a second time parent (sort of), I realize I could’ve done so much more for her despite the challenges a NICU presents. So much. But I didn’t know any better. I wasn’t reading developmental blogs and books on baby milestones, I was meeting with medical teams and intensely praying that my baby would survive. I didn’t know that I should be helping her hands come to mid-line or narrating every aspect of the day to aid in her communication skills. I could’ve done so much more for her.
I will forever worry about how our time as a NICU family may have harmed my girl. I will forever feel ashamed that I didn’t do more for her those first 101 days now knowing that I could have.
I didn’t get to be a real Mom to Elliott at first. Not what I consider a real Mom anyway. I wasn’t able to fulfill her needs the way I can fulfill Calvin’s. Even when we brought her home we had nurses and therapists and doctors. Oh my. (..we still do..) With Calvin, we call the shots. Within reason, of course. We don’t need permission to change his feeding schedule or volume. We do it based upon him letting us know he’s still hungry. We don’t need permission to give him Tylenol when he spikes a fever. We do it when he needs it. And we know he needs it because we are his parents. We know him better than anyone - especially more than a medical team.
I must admit, I am a greedy mom to Cal. I don’t think I’ll be this way forever but right now, in his infancy - I’m greedy and I’m ok with it. I want him with me, on me, around me. I want to feed him, change his diapers, bathe him, burp him, lull him to sleep, comfort him… Mother him. I’m not ready for other caretakers - not yet anyway. I don’t think the people around us understand my perspective. Not unless they had our same experience, which they didn’t, so I don’t expect them to truly understand.
We are all products of our experiences. We shape and morph ourselves to adapt to what life has handed us; I am no different. Couldn’t be the mom I wanted to be to my first baby? Fine, I will hoard my second. Spent all our time in hospitals and doctors offices; never wanting to exacerbate this time by getting our first baby sick? Fine, we will Purell our hands until the epidermis falls off with our second. Wasn’t allowed to make a single attempt at breastfeeding with my first baby? Fine, I will nurse my second until my nipples reach industrial strength - a status no nipples have ever desired. Couldn’t wrap my first baby, wearing her obsessively inside the house and out? Fine, I will wear my second like he’s underwear. (Something that must be worn daily.. not like I’m wearing my baby underneath pants or anything weird. I felt this was an analogy worthy of clarification. You’re welcome.)
I have intentionally suppressed majority of our time in the NICU. This means along with the bad, I’ve blocked out the good. The support we received from friends, family…strangers, all pushed to the back of my mind because I can’t think of the good without feeling the bad. And I don’t want to feel the bad. I just don’t. Maybe someday I will feel differently - maybe when Elliott is 5… or 20. We’ll see. I remember a few of Elliott’s nurses were inspired to become NICU nurses after they were NICU moms when their own babies were there. I was astonished when I learned their story and commend these women tremendously - I could not do that. I don’t have it in me. I have a minor panic attack just walking near the elevator banks we used everyday to be with Elliott. The specific scent of that tower of the hospital invokes anxiousness inside of me. I feel the stress in my bones. The sensations are real and strong - even now, almost 3 years later. Right or wrong, I am still mourning - still grieving the loss of being a real mom to my daughter.
The opposition to this sorrow is my supreme awareness that I have the opportunity to be a real mom to my son, That I have been given a gift to be here for him. To be exhausted because he only naps soundly on me. To have a disastrous house because I can’t keep up with the excessive laundry produced as a result of blow-outs and spit-ups. To now think of showers as a luxury because I barely squeeze in two a week. To have backaches from overuse in a way only wearing a baby for long periods of time can create.
My eyes are bordered by bags.
My hamper smells of week old yoga pants because my own laundry is no longer a priority.
My hair is coated to the limit with dry shampoo.
My back will likely never be the same again no matter any amount of yoga.
And… I’ve never been more aware of the gifts that these are. The exhaustion. The laundry. The greasy hair. The backache. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Until the NexT21,
Aubrey
