Prematurity and Pandemics
The absolute hardest thing I have done in my life is delivering my twins 8 weeks early and leaving them in the hospital every single night for the first month of their lives. It was a gut-wrenching blow each and every time. What would the next day bring? When would they get out of those 4 walls and breathe fresh air? How could I ever explain to them that it wasn't supposed to be like this, and I'd never done this before either? All we could do was put hope and trust in the doctors and nurses, and even they couldn't make any promises. In the fog of this new-mom-with-no-babies-at-home trauma, it was very hard to see past the next hour, and impossible to know what impact this experience would have on the rest of my life.
This first experience with prematurity came out of nowhere. Despite my knowing that preterm delivery was the number one risk of my twin pregnancy, the moment itself came as a surprise. I was having a healthy, enjoyable pregnancy up until the point when I popped out of bed at 12:30 am on the day I hit 32 weeks and suddenly realized that "pop" was actually my water breaking. My babies were born less than 3 hours later. It didn't seem real, but the days, weeks, months, and now years later proved just how real it was.
I never knew exactly how life-changing this experience with prematurity was for me until my second pregnancy. I was reluctantly grateful for the 20 weeks of painful syrupy injections designed to keep my baby inside and optimize our physical outcome, but there were no similar medications to moderate my mental health. No pill or vaccine existed to minimize the guilt-ridden fear and anticipation of this next 32 week milestone. Would we make it? Did I know what to do to ensure our safety? If we made it past this mark, would I be able to breathe freely again?
Well, we did make it to that 32 week mark, and nearly 8 weeks after that, too. My daughter was born full term and healthy as could be. I was a mother relieved. A mother vindicated. A mother healed.
I thought that my years post-pregnancies would be free from concerns of prematurity. And until today, I never fully grasped how that experience would be reflected in other contexts.
One year ago today, I began a sunny day of premature spring, gleefully sending my kindergarten twins onto the bus for a fun Friday. I hesitantly reminded them to wash their hands extra before snack and lunch, just in case. I thought I might be overreacting, and I didn't want to burden them with "grown up" concerns. They were thriving, smiling, brilliant little kindergarteners, unknowingly heading to their last day of school--in March.
When they came home that day, we had already learned schools would be closed for a short period of time. By two days later, that reality was extended. And very soon, it was clear that we were facing our second great battle with prematurity in their young lives. These 28 week old kindergarteners were born out of their nurturing classrooms too soon.
It was a gut-wrenching blow. Especially for the mommy who had to be strong. What would the next day bring? When would they get out of those 4 walls and breathe fresh air? How could I ever explain to them that it wasn't supposed to be like this, and I'd never done this before either? All we could do was put hope and trust in the doctors and nurses, and even they couldn't make any promises. It didn't seem real, but the days, weeks, months, and now year later proved just how real it was.
As we approached the 28 week mark of this school year, I held my breath. There was now a vaccine to protect our physical health, but no similar treatment to minimize the impact on our mental health: the fear and anticipation of this next 28 week milestone. Would we make it? Did I know what to do to ensure our safety? If we made it past this mark, would I be able to breathe freely again?
Well, today, I can achingly say we did make it to that 28 week mark, and I recognize that many many others have not. I continue to trust that with care and compassion, we will make it the next 15 after this too. We don't have any guarantees, but we have hope and trust. Hope that all will continue to do their part for the greater good of our communities, and trust in the incredible heroes working to ensure our continued health and safety--especially those within the classroom.
Today, I am once again a mother relieved.
Tomorrow, I hope to be a mother vindicated.
And as we continue our journey, I hope to one day be a mother healed.
Healed from the great life lessons of prematurity and pandemics.
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