The Birth Experience I Didn't Have

It took nearly five months but I finally got angry. Perhaps it’s when we transitioned out of survival mode and into a semi-normal routine, or maybe it was just a coincidence. Either way, I finally began to experience emotions other than relief at the preterm delivery of my sweet, (relatively) healthy Vivi girl.

Especially in the beginning, but even now I hear, “Oh that must have been so hard on you to have your daughter in the NICU for so long. How did you deal with it?”
And my go to response would be, “It wasn’t that hard, actually. The nurses and doctors took far better care of her than I could possibly dream of doing when she was so little.”

And that was the truth. I was and still am so thankful for the kindness, compassion, teaching spirit, and love that the staff has for these little miracles. Their nimble fingers put in IVs in the tiniest of victims, sometimes starting them in their heads when it’s impossible to establish one in their little arms. They’re quick with feedings, constantly offering words of support to weary parents, and serve as a beacon of light in the small NICU off of the newborn nursery.

No one tells you what to expect when your baby weighs less than 4 pounds at birth. No one tells you what it’s like to go to the recovery room without your daughter and to not be able to hold her until your own medication has worn off enough so that staff is ensured that your legs are functioning properly. My eyes burn as I type this, as I finally allow myself to grieve the experiences that never came to be.

Vivi and me, less than five minutes after her birth.

At the time, I was just so thankful for such small things; when she was born I was able to place her on my chest and have skin-to-skin contact, something that I was warned may not be possible depending on how much care she needed. One of the first pictures that I posted for friends to see is a picture of me smiling happily with sweet Vivian on my chest. It is doubtful that anyone recognized or understood the triumph I had at that moment (beyond the triumph any new mom experiences), but I am still in awe that this teeny tiny girl was well enough for me to have that initial bonding opportunity. She was whisked upstairs within minutes, but after that moment I felt reassured that she was going to be just fine. For whatever reason, Vivi had been ready to come out and there was no stopping her. I knew she had enough spunk to overcome these initial obstacles.

In a time when women are encouraged to keep their babies with them during the hospital stay immediately following birth, it seems very unnatural to not have your baby with you. I knew she was in the best of care upstairs, but it was so hard to wait the five hours it took for me to go upstairs and see her. We missed out on so much-the initial nursing sessions, Rolf and me happily showing Vivi off to our friends and family, and us taking endless pictures as a little family for the very first time.

There are many women I know who become terribly depressed when they pass their due dates, their bellies swelling larger-seemingly by the second, and their bodies terribly uncomfortable. I don’t promise to relate to them, and I can only imagine how miserable it must be to have no more physical space for your little one to grow. It must feel like hearing for months that a race is only going to be 13 miles, only to be told once you’ve passed the final mile marker that you have miles left to go. Weak. Disappointed. Exhausted beyond belief. Anxious for it to be over. Mentally drained.

But I can’t help but be envious of the women who make it to that point. Considerably fewer babies born after their due dates require NICU stays. Yes, I’m pulling that statement out of thin air and have no statistics to back me up, but I am confident that that is the truth.

I am rambling.

But when you get down to brass tacks, I’m now mourning the birth experience that I didn’t have. I didn’t get to enjoy those first precious days with my daughter by our bedside in the hospital. I had to hop on the elevator and be granted access into the unit that housed my baby. Few had access to the NICU and it was no privilege for those of us who did; if you were a non-staff member it meant that your baby was sick enough to not be brought into your hospital room due to the need for more extensive care.

 I had to watch other people change Vivi’s diapers, wipe her down, even feed her for three weeks. I had to learn how to comfortably hold the tiniest baby I’d ever seen in real life. I was forced to walk out in public, my body still healing from the birthing process, but no baby to show for it. I was required to wear a hospital band for three weeks, my only noticeable indicator to anyone that any kind of life event had occurred.

The coming home outfit that I’d so meticulously scoured department stores for and so proudly packed into our hospital bag weeks in advance still has the tags on it. The dress was far too big for her. A thoughtful friend picked up the same dress in a preemie size so that Vivi could have her newborn pictures taken with it on. Did I mention that her newborn pictures were taken at 2 weeks and 6 days? No one takes newborn pictures of babies with ng tubes.

I missed early snuggles; in order to prevent Vivi from burning precious calories, we were really only able to hold her during feedings, which occurred every 3 hours. That meant that I pumped milk for 15 minutes, transferred it to bottles, cleaned out the parts, went to Vivi’s room, Rolf and I would “fight” over whose turn it was to hold her. One or the other of us would cuddle her while she was eating, then when it was all said and done we’d have about an hour and a half before repeating the process again.

Day after day I would pump and then make my way down the hallway into the NICU access, watching families and friends gawk and admire the healthy newborns through the nursery windows. They oohed and ahhed in delight at the brand-new babies with their bright skin and angry squawks, meanwhile I would shuffle into Vivi’s room, hand freshly expressed milk to the nurses, and then greet my daughter through the enclosed incubator that enabled her to maintain a normal body temperature. Even after we knew how to take all of the monitors and sensors off, we still had to wait patiently so that the alarms wouldn’t screech to the high heavens. And God forbid one of those blasted sensors get wet; the entire unit would be locked down for minutes just to ensure no babies were being stolen.

And if anyone was going to steal a baby, they missed their opportunity during that time period. Vivi was born in the midst of the NICU’s big move, which they had long anticipated for over two years. The very week she was born, the NICU babies were slowly and painstakingly brought from one floor down to the other. The new space was beautiful, but certainly not where we’d wanted to be. In the words of Judy Garland, “There’s no place like home.”

After two weeks of boarding in the hospital room, we finally threw a white flag of surrender to sleep in our own beds. It was time. I knew it was time because I didn’t even cry when we moved out. In fact, the only time I got teary was when we were telling Vivi goodbye one evening and she was crying a little. My heart broke at hearing our little girl whimper (she had such little energy that she almost never cried at that point) and I couldn’t stay to comfort her.

I look at this chubby little girl with bright eyes and ear-to-ear smiles and I can hardly remember her newborn size. During our many snuggles throughout the days and weeks, I’m reminded of how far we’ve come and where we started. I still feel like I’m making up for lost time.

I am hopeful that we experience a “normal” pregnancy and delivery next time. I do know for sure that a full-term pregnancy won’t be taken for granted and if my baby chooses to bake a little longer than necessary, I’ll work hard to just be thankful.