Facebook is really quite something isn’t it? It can put you in touch with anyone and everyone you have ever met–for better and for worse! You can reconnect with long-lost friends–awesome! That ex-boyfriend you would rather avoid can “friend” you–not so awesome…
Recently through the magic of Facebook, I discovered that at least 3 other women with whom I had graduated from high school also had premature babies. It is so weird to think that while we were going to football games, cramming for the SATs and applying for college, years later we would be again united–but by something that surely never crossed our minds all of those years ago.
Their stories are all very different and they have graciously decided to share them here with the hope of educating other families about how a premature birth can change your life.
First up is Theresa’s story. Her words, her photos–her story.
Aaron holding his dad's hand.
“I have absolutely no problem with admitting that for most of my life I have been an overachieving perfectionist who likes to be in control. I actually considered that to be a positive thing; I was never satisfied with less than an “A” in school, I never applied to a school and received a rejection letter, and I never went on an interview that didn’t end with a job offer. I took pride in knowing that it didn’t matter what the challenge was – I would face it head-on, I would give it everything I had, and I would not quit until it was done…and most importantly, done right.
It is with this spirit that I began the journey of motherhood. My husband and I had been married for a few years. We both loved children and wanted several. We were both educated. We had excellent health insurance, and stable jobs. We had a plan for buying our own home in the very near future. We had done everything “the right way”, and we were ready to welcome a child into our family, and to provide him with a wonderful home, a magical childhood, and every opportunity possible.
I quickly became well versed on all things baby and mother related. I read all of the books outlining what to expect, gave up caffeine and alcohol, began taking vitamins, and when we finally saw a positive pregnancy test, I was at the doctor’s office the very next day and never missed a prenatal appointment. We found out early that I was expecting twins, and were over the moon. I was warned to expect them about three weeks early, which was normal for a twin pregnancy, and left every appointment with a clean bill of health and the assurance that everything was happening according to plan, and oh, what plans I had! Aside from the constant researching and reading anything I could find on pregnancy and the birthing process, I had signed up for childbirth classes, I was making great progress on the nursery, and I daydreamed about the moment the doctor handed me those two little angels so much that it felt like one of those dreams that was so vivid you had to wake up a little before you realized that it had all been a figment of your imagination.
This idealized fantasy of mine was shattered in my twenty fourth week when I just felt “weird” while cooking dinner. It didn’t take long to realize that the weird feeling was actually a contraction. My husband rushed me to the hospital where they confirmed that I was in labor and began pumping me full of medication to stop the contractions and steroids to help the babies’ lungs mature faster if labor could not be stopped. This was the first time I felt as though something was very wrong. I had been so careful about everything that went into my body from the very beginning, and now doctors are giving me drugs? Eventually the contractions stopped, I was sent home on bed rest, and was readmitted several days later when my water broke. This time, however, there were no drugs and there was no estimated date of discharge. I was going to be there until my boys were born, whether that was in a few hours, a few days, or a few months on my actual due date.
Looking back now, I see how ridiculous it is, but I was so very angry that I was hospitalized. I had things to do, damn it! I had to finish the babies’ room. I had to pre-cook and freeze meals so my husband and I would have nutritious homemade dinners ready to go on busy nights. I had to go shopping for the outfits they would wear home. I had to pack the “It’s time!” suitcase that every expectant mom puts together and sets by the doorway…just waiting for the big moment. With all of the daydreaming I had done over the last few weeks, I never once imagined a scenario where I was in the hospital. As corny as it sounds, I wanted that last moment with my husband just before dashing to the car where we would say, “Just think…we leave here as Joe and Theresa, and come back as Mom and Dad.”
Sadly, I did not have to wait long in that hospital bed. Two days after being admitted indefinitely, I went into labor. My precious babies had only been growing for twenty -seven weeks and two days. This time they could not stop it, since my water had broken, and this is when the fear really set in. I was not ready for this. One of my boys was in a breech presentation, and that combined with the fact that I was carrying twins who would be born early made my doctor decide that a c-section was the way to go. I was quite happy with that arrangement and was comforted to know that I would not feel the pain of labor. I begged the doctor for my epidural only to hear that there wasn’t enough time for one, and I started to panic. Ninety minutes after the first contraction began, Aaron Thomas entered the world weighing two pounds and two ounces. I tried to sit up to see him, and only caught the briefest glimpse of his leg. I felt an overwhelming sadness when I realized that the still-attached umbilical cord was thicker in diameter than my child’s leg. After Aaron was whisked off to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), his still unborn brother’s heartbeat slowed, and it was decided that I had to have a c-section immediately. Fuzzily sedated, I remember very little about the moment Michael Roy arrived weighing two pounds, eight ounces except that he immediately cried the kitten like sound premature infants make, and I thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
Patient-controlled morphine, other painkillers, and the significant blood loss and physical trauma I had undergone make a lot of those first few days very difficult to remember clearly, but I do know that during those days, and in the coming months, every daydream and preconceived notion I had about motherhood were completely useless. None of the books I read had discussed a situation like this. I did not know anyone else who had given birth prematurely, and had no one to act as a mentor. This is where the first cracks in my confidence and in my belief that I could handle anything appeared. Every day, women have perfectly normal, healthy babies. Healthy babies were born to women who did not plan for them or want them. They were born to teenage moms who did not get prenatal care. It seemed that healthy babies were just the obvious, and only result of pregnancy. So, why couldn’t I get it right? I agonized over whether I did something wrong, whether I should have left my job sooner, whether I did not get enough sleep, or any of the million other factors I began turning over in my mind. I even wondered if it was possible that I did not want or love them enough to carry them to term. The doctors I saw could not give me the answers I so desperately needed. They all told me that there are many cases, mine being one of them, where there is no obvious reason why the mother went into pre-term labor, and their only suggestion was to think long and hard about it before deciding to have another child. Based on what they did know, I only had a twenty-five percent chance of ever carrying a child to term.
It was suddenly clear to me that all of my reading, researching, and planning were useless. I began a steep, emotionally wrenching learning curve and struggled to accept the situation at hand as my new “normal”. Every day I was in the NICU, I learned more and more about the fragility of human existence, and that all of those healthy babies I thought just entered the world easily and with no complications were actually breathtaking examples of natural perfection; with all of the possible genetic combinations and mutations out there, how can it be that the vast majority of infants enter the world with no health or development issues? My new “normal” encouraged me to really examine the many blessings in my life, to cherish the little, seemingly unimportant moments, and to come to understand that as hard as I may try, things happen and there is absolutely nothing I can do to control it. I do, however, have control over how I react, how I cope with stress, and how fulfilling my life can be despite the obstacles I was facing.
These were not lessons I learned easily though – it was not as if I had a sudden moment of enlightenment and then everything fell into place. My self-confidence, my positive outlook on life, and my belief in my ability to be a good mother were severely tested during our three month stay in the NICU, and many times more after we took our boys home. I put unrealistic pressure on myself to be the “perfect” wife and mom, believing that by doing this I could make everything work out all right, when in reality I was the only one who thought that I needed to seek any sort of redemption for the premature birth of our boys and the lifelong effects they would suffer from complications that occurred in the NICU. For a very long time I kept my feelings about all that had happened to myself, and pretended everything was just fine. No one can keep up that charade for long though, and when I did finally reach out for help, I had to accept that this was not an admission of defeat, or a sign of weakness. It was, in reality, the very best way I could take care of my family and myself. And as I began to admit that I was not perfect, but was giving motherhood my very best effort, I started to see that this was the only thing I could realistically expect from myself. And as my boys grew and progressed beyond the original, grim prognoses we were given, my confidence in myself and in my ability to be a great mother also grew. In many ways I feel like the three of us grew together, and more often than not I learned far more from my boys than I ever could impart to them. As a former educator, I am quite proud to say that my boys are some of the very best teachers I have ever met!
So now, six years after the birth of our boys, my life is dramatically different than what I had planned it to be so long ago. By now, I expected to either have, or to be pregnant with, our fourth and final child. Instead, I am the mother of Aaron, who is physically here with our family, and Michael who became my special angel about a year and a half ago. After suffering complications in the NICU, both of my boys endured brain injuries that resulted in cerebral palsy. Aaron is fortunate to be otherwise healthy, but Michael was much more medically fragile and though he was an amazing little warrior, it eventually became more than his body could tolerate. I find great comfort in knowing that no matter what happens after we die, he is no longer struggling, and is peacefully at rest. There were many times after losing him that I didn’t think I could keep going without him; the pain of losing a child is unlike anything I have ever experienced. But Aaron keeps me grounded, and reminds me in his own little ways every day that he needs me, and that despite the heartache and disappointment, there are still so many beautiful, breathtaking moments all around us, showing us that we are all part of some greater plan and although it may not always be clear how or why, we are somehow exactly what and where we are supposed to be. The life I lead is nothing I would have planned for, but I am grateful every day to have it, and am thankful in so many ways that there was a greater plan for me. And while I am still often an overachieving perfectionist, I have learned to accept that I cannot control everything that happens in my life…and I know that if I did have complete control, I would have missed out on two of my life’s greatest blessings.”
Theresa with Aaron and Michael on their first day of preschool
Michael, upside down--one of his favorite things!
Thank you, Theresa, for sharing your story and photos here. Together we can help educate everyone about premature births.
