Dear Son, I Remember

I wrote this blog a while ago. Now I'm posting it as a birthday gift to myself...

Dear Son, I Remember your entry in the world like it was yesterday and forever ago. I'm shocked to say you're nearly six months old. Time is a very strange thing...

I've been writing this post to you for months (in my mind); then recently two things happened that made me realize I needed to make all the things in my brain somehow tangible. First of all, a couple here in our community had their son show up about a month early. They knew he had a birth defect, but they were hoping a surgery after birth would take care of things. He came the day after Mother's Day and lived just one day. The very same week, some friends of mine in my hometown had their full-term son arrive. Again, they knew he had a birth defect, but they held out hope and welcomed him into their arms and family for too short a time. He survived birth and fought for his life for three days. In both families both sons were very wanted and very loved.

I want to tell you that you are and have always been very wanted and very loved. And every day I find the strangest phenomenon happening: I want you and love you a little more than I did the day before. I have no idea how it's possible, but it is. I hope one day you get to experience becoming a parent so you can have a glimpse into my heart.

I Remember I wanted children in my twenties. Circumstances beyond my control prevented it. I was blessed with your older sister and older brother three and a half years ago when I married your dad. I have always loved children. Your dad has always loved children.

I Remember when we started to talk about having a baby together I was in my thirties and had discovered a health challenge that causes fertility issues. Your dad had to have a surgery to be able to have kids again. The odds were not great, but not impossible. Less than five months after your dad's surgery we discovered we were blessed to have you in my womb. A year ago your dad was telling me I was pregnant with you...and I was telling him there was no way. Well, you can see who was right...at least about that.

I Remember you were due on your great-grandmother's 95th birthday, February 5th, but you showed up 10 weeks early. You see, the Monday after Halloween I was getting ready for work around 6:30am and I was doing my usual routine: already showered and making a piece of toast while pouring my morning coffee when my water broke. Once again, your dad was telling me my water had broken...and I was telling him there was no way. Well, you can see who was right...at least about that.

I Remember your dad calmly, hastily driving us to the emergency room of the small hospital in our town. I remember being admitted to the labor and delivery unit of the hospital right at shift change. Somehow in the rush the woman who handled my admittance thought I said I was 22 weeks pregnant. It wasn't until I was lying in a bed having needles poked into my arm and an ultrasound (which I shouldn't have had) that I overhead them discussing the "22 week gross rupture." I interrupted their too-loud (thank God) hallway discussion to correct them. I was 26 weeks along. In the blink of an eye, everything changed and things went into hyper-speed.

I Remember our dear friends, Jason and Andrea Gressman, showing up after what seemed to be only minutes following a texted plea for people to pray for us. I remember Jason reading holy words and then praying for us. I remember Andrea squeezing my hand and rubbing my feet. I remember tears chasing one after another down my cheeks and pooling in my ears as the swell in my throat choked me. I remember looking at my clothes shed hastily in a heap and wondering when I would put them back on again. It wouldn't be for more than a month.

I Remember being wheeled down a hallway and onto the rooftop where helicopter blades swept arcs above my head. It was a hazy autumn morning with golden trees standing regal in crisp, smoky air. I remember thinking hospital gowns don't do much to blanket the vulnerability of bare feet and legs when you're strapped to a gurney and praying your son waits to come into the world.

I remember my nurse, Sara (a comforting name for a nurse, in my book, because of my own nurse friend, Sara), hovering over me and giving me oxygen as we flew toward my toes and the hospital with the closest NICU. It rose into view like a shimmering beacon, glittering in the late morning sun. It was where I would sleep twenty-eight nights, nights of scarce rest and doors slamming and alarms ringing and ice makers grinding away while I prayed you, my son, would wait to come into the world.

I Remember the first 24 hours after my water broke my brain swam on a drug they said would ward off contractions. And while the room spun and my body temperature played strange games, a parade of people came in to explain to your dad and me what the very worst of circumstances could look like. I remember learning words like "premature rupture of membrane," "spontaneous labor," "antepartum," "magnesium sulfate" and "gestational age." I remember learning that your lungs were  developing and that eyes are some of the last organs to mature. I remember being told you could have issues breathing on your own and that you might be blind.

I Remember my perinatologist, Dr. Robinson, a graduate from NYU with a soft Jamaican accent who insisted on keeping us on continuous monitoring. He came to see us every single day he was in town. And when he entered Room 625, he would unfold the accordion of paper and read across the ribbon that was your heart rate. Sometimes the trail was so long he'd back away from the machine and into the bathroom so he could start at the beginning. You hated that monitor and tried all manner of things to slip off the radar...which always brought a nurse to my bedside. I hated the monitor with you, if it makes any difference.

I Remember my OB, Dr. B, had just returned to work from her own maternity leave the day we landed at the hospital. I remember her telling me that if you had been 22 weeks (as the first hospital initially thought), I would've been sent home to miscarry because you wouldn't have been considered viable yet.  I remember being told that 28 weeks was better than 26 weeks and I should try to hold on that long, however one does that. I remember them telling me that if I was going to go into labor it would either be in the first 48ish hours or else we could probably go for a while until inevitable infection caused me to go into labor. I remember them telling me that if I went into spontaneous labor they wouldn't do anything to stop it because at that point you would just need to get away from your infection riddled nest. I remember wondering what I could do to hold you longer and praying and crying, begging God to let me hold you for as long as I could.

I Remember early mornings were my very favorite times because I would rise before the sun and in those days of shrinking sunlight I would turn on music I loved and I would sing to you, to myself, for my God. I played mixed CD's my friend, Sweet Melissa, had burned for me years ago when I had gone through another heart wrenching season of my life. I played Fernando Ortega's Storm and Hymns and Meditations albums. I especially loved the song "This Time Next Year" and the story of the red-haired grandchild...which you were...I just didn't know it at the time. I remember lying in the bed, which I did a lot of...being on bed rest, naturally, and how I would crook my arms around my belly to cradle you. I remember how special those early morning hours were before the daily march of hospital staff began their rounds  and visitors dropped in to interrupt my time alone with you. And I remember watching you push and kick and elbow against your ever tightening confines while I prayed you, my son, would wait to come into the world.

I Remember lying in the labor and delivery bed and wondering how on earth anyone could find a comfortable position being pregnant and knowing that most women enjoyed the plastic, pull-apart, practical-for-cleaning electric bed only during active labor, not for a full month. I remember seeing the bill for the hospital stay and thinking I should've asked for (and been given) a Sleep Number bed for that astronomical rate. I remember that even though the bed was already impractical for my dearly elusive sleep somehow your dad would stretch his 6'7" frame across the bed so he could lie beside me and hold both of us. I remember your sister and brother climbing into that bed with me as well so we could cuddle and watch movies when they visited. I remember fighting feelings of uselessness as the world outside marched on and I lived in a box unable to interact with it. I remember your dad sweetly reminding me that I was doing the most important of things...holding you. The NICU staff reinforced this by telling me one day in the womb was equal to two in the NICU; that knowledge always renewed my resolve.

I Remember my labor and delivery nurses and how they cheered for me. I remember them talking and laughing and telling me outrageous stories that are their everyday work life. I remember the relief on their faces when they would return from their days off and walk into Room 625 to find me there still. I remember them telling me that I was a brave and happy antepartum mom and how much they love the antepartums. I didn't feel brave all the time, but I was thrilled every time a night passed and I could say I was one more day further into the calendar.

I Remember the view from my room and how I loved to see the stars and how I missed the moon.  In the morning I would watch warm rays creep across the distant red stone to illuminate an arch for the briefest of time. I remember a lone aspen resplendent in bright gold and I remember telling myself and God that I wanted to watch the tree until her arms were bare...My longing was realized; I stayed until the last leaf danced to the ground and snowflakes blew through the air.

I Remember begging to go outside so I could smell fresh air. I got 3 fleeting 3o minute reprieves in the 28 days I was hospitalized. One of those times was in thin afternoon air shaded by the height of towering hospital. I watched your dad snowball fight your brother and sister against the pale blue sky while I shivered in the wheelchair that afforded me the freedom to escape my room for that precious blink in time. Another time the velvet of the evening sky was heavy with wood smoke during a too-brief dose of chilly freshness that stung my cheeks and nose in common glory. I wondered if you could tell it was cold outside and if you knew the crisp invigoration with me.

I Remember how I rejoiced at each of your movements because I learned babies without amniotic fluid can have constrictures, limbs that are retracted and underdeveloped due to lack of space and limited ability to move freely. I remember reading in the too-thick book about preemies that you probably wouldn't have the strength to cry when you were born. I remember realizing it was absolutely guaranteed that you'd go straight to the NICU. I remember being grateful for the amazing care we got at the hospital even while I was grieving that my hippy birth I had dreamt of was no longer a possibility. I remember when you arrived screaming into the world all I could say was: "My baby!" while my heart sang upon hearing the answered prayer that was your tiny voice.

I Remember I didn't get to hold you right away and my arms ached with a weight incomprehensible. I remember wandering down the hall and into the NICU department during the wee hours on the night you arrived just so I could look at you in your plastic machine shell and marvel that you were real and really mine. You were so tiny and so perfect and I watched your chest flutter over your ribs with lightning speed. I think my heart thundered in time with yours. I wept when I was told I would finally be allowed to hold you. I flew with soaring heart as fast as hospital gown and IV pole allowed and plopped into vinyl and wood with arms outstretched for the nurse to reunite us, skin-to-skin, the closest we could be now that you were outside of me.

I Remember my life changed. Our lives changed. The lives of many changed the day you came into the world and it's my prayer that many more will be changed before you are done. Your name was chosen by your dad and me for a few reasons. First of all, the Levites were dedicated by God to live for God and to draw others to Him. Second, Levi was Jacob's third-born child. You are a gift from God and we want you to live for Him and draw others to Him. You are the third-born into this family. Your name literally means: "joined with" or "associated with." I love the meaning of your name because you join our family together. You draw people in who were previously unassociated or associated loosely. I love that you tighten the links that have been built in our family and among friends. Your middle name was given in tribute to your dad's paternal grandfather who was actively involved in raising your dad. He loved the Lord. He blessed our family by helping your dad learn how to become a man. I haven't had the privilege of meeting him yet, but I look forward to thanking him in heaven one day. I remember not being fully confident of your name and wanting to wait until I saw you face-to-face. Your dad went with you to the NICU while the doctors and nurses took care of me. I remember when he came back to me he said we picked the right name for you.

I Remember so many other little details but the one I remember the most is: I love you. I loved you before I even knew you. I will always love you. I hope you always remember.