my brokenness
Jamie wrote today about brokenness and how important it is to share ours. Here is my story.
Lincoln spent a week of his life in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I suppose it's time for me to start to process that time, rather than allow emotion to overwhelm me whenever I think of it or whenever something is not absolutely perfect or whenever there's a possibility that something could be wrong.
I think that most people in my life believe what I force my words and actions (or lack thereof) to convey, that I've moved on, that I'm able to remember those days without moments of fear of something happening again and without my emotions overwhelming me, that I can just be thankful that all is well now. (Truly, I am thankful that all is well. It's just that my emotions aren't quite that simple right now.) But, honestly, I don't know when I will get to that place. This is part of my brokenness.
In many ways, I know we have been so fortunate. Saying we're "blessed" sounds kind of hokey because I think it's overused, especially by Christians. But blessed is truly the word. Right now, we have a perfectly healthy little boy. My pregnancy was uneventful. Though labor and delivery didn't go the way we planned and hoped, we left the hospital two days later with a healthy, full-term baby. We have more than we need.
There was a week, though, that we did not know if life would be this way again. And this post is about that.
Who knew that 19 days after his entrance into the world, our sweet, tiny baby would be readmitted, placed in intensive care.
When I think about April 10, the day we took Lincoln to the ER, it seems like there's a haze around the events before about 8 p.m. I just remember how strange it was that he was limp and not at all interested in nursing.
I do remember the drive to St. Joe, the 30 minutes when Please, God were the only words I could form in my mind. And I remember how I would not allow myself to even think the rest of the sentence, because it seemed so horrific that a mother would even acknowledge the possibility - Please, God, don't take our baby.
I felt I had failed my son in some way, that it just might be my fault we were in this place.
I felt so afraid.
We had no idea what was wrong, but we knew with certainty that something was wrong. We sat in the waiting room, but not for long. The long wait was in the ER exam room; it seemed like hours. I fought to hold in tears, but broke down when I called my parents to tell them what was going on.
I remember walking back into his isolation room in the NICU, after leaving to pump, as they readied Lincoln for a spinal tap. I was simply told that it would happen now and escorted to the waiting room where Brad sat. Please, God, my prayer continued. I remember my parents walking off the elevators and tears spilling, unwelcome, down my face.
Seeing his big blue eyes, a little weary but bright again, was comforting. But I also remember thinking, as my mom prayed, that I desperately wished I could have some answers and feel some peace.
I "slept" in the broken hospital bed for the next week. Over that time Brad and I sat, on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair, and watched Lincoln become more and more animated. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and prayed - desperately and peacefully, mixed words of supplication and of thanksgiving. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair as our son was poked and prodded and tested. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and heard that though our baby was himself again, we would stay for one full week. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and cried out our fear and stress. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and made countless phone calls to our parents, replied to text messages, sent e-mail updates to family, posted on facebook and this blog.
On April 17, we got to bring our little man home from the hospital for the second time. We sat on our own couch and held Lincoln close.
I felt cheated. I lost a week of maternity leave to the NICU. I felt afraid. How could we know that this - or something else - will not happen again? I felt guilty. What could I have done to keep my son healthy? I felt sorrow that my son had this experience (though I know he won't remember).
I don't feel afraid now, at least not often. My memory is starting to fade, and this experience is now rarely at the front of my mind. But I still get emotional when I think back about that week. I tear up every time. What "could have been" - and could still be - haunts me sometimes.
I worry. I know it's part of parenting. But this worry seems magnified. I am working on choosing my worries wisely.
I'm not sure how to completely let go and trust that all is and will be well. I am unsure, but I am working on it.
This is my brokenness.
Please know: this has been a difficult post to write. I have had it started for weeks now. I know that some of the feelings I have shared are not logical. Whether or not my feelings are logical or even close to the reality of the situation is not the point. The fact that they are my feelings makes too them valid and important to be dismissed.
Lincoln spent a week of his life in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I suppose it's time for me to start to process that time, rather than allow emotion to overwhelm me whenever I think of it or whenever something is not absolutely perfect or whenever there's a possibility that something could be wrong.
I think that most people in my life believe what I force my words and actions (or lack thereof) to convey, that I've moved on, that I'm able to remember those days without moments of fear of something happening again and without my emotions overwhelming me, that I can just be thankful that all is well now. (Truly, I am thankful that all is well. It's just that my emotions aren't quite that simple right now.) But, honestly, I don't know when I will get to that place. This is part of my brokenness.
In many ways, I know we have been so fortunate. Saying we're "blessed" sounds kind of hokey because I think it's overused, especially by Christians. But blessed is truly the word. Right now, we have a perfectly healthy little boy. My pregnancy was uneventful. Though labor and delivery didn't go the way we planned and hoped, we left the hospital two days later with a healthy, full-term baby. We have more than we need.
There was a week, though, that we did not know if life would be this way again. And this post is about that.
Who knew that 19 days after his entrance into the world, our sweet, tiny baby would be readmitted, placed in intensive care.
When I think about April 10, the day we took Lincoln to the ER, it seems like there's a haze around the events before about 8 p.m. I just remember how strange it was that he was limp and not at all interested in nursing.
I do remember the drive to St. Joe, the 30 minutes when Please, God were the only words I could form in my mind. And I remember how I would not allow myself to even think the rest of the sentence, because it seemed so horrific that a mother would even acknowledge the possibility - Please, God, don't take our baby.
I felt I had failed my son in some way, that it just might be my fault we were in this place.
I felt so afraid.
We had no idea what was wrong, but we knew with certainty that something was wrong. We sat in the waiting room, but not for long. The long wait was in the ER exam room; it seemed like hours. I fought to hold in tears, but broke down when I called my parents to tell them what was going on.
I remember walking back into his isolation room in the NICU, after leaving to pump, as they readied Lincoln for a spinal tap. I was simply told that it would happen now and escorted to the waiting room where Brad sat. Please, God, my prayer continued. I remember my parents walking off the elevators and tears spilling, unwelcome, down my face.
Seeing his big blue eyes, a little weary but bright again, was comforting. But I also remember thinking, as my mom prayed, that I desperately wished I could have some answers and feel some peace.
I "slept" in the broken hospital bed for the next week. Over that time Brad and I sat, on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair, and watched Lincoln become more and more animated. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and prayed - desperately and peacefully, mixed words of supplication and of thanksgiving. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair as our son was poked and prodded and tested. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and heard that though our baby was himself again, we would stay for one full week. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and cried out our fear and stress. We sat on the broken bed and on the plastic-y chair and made countless phone calls to our parents, replied to text messages, sent e-mail updates to family, posted on facebook and this blog.
On April 17, we got to bring our little man home from the hospital for the second time. We sat on our own couch and held Lincoln close.
I felt cheated. I lost a week of maternity leave to the NICU. I felt afraid. How could we know that this - or something else - will not happen again? I felt guilty. What could I have done to keep my son healthy? I felt sorrow that my son had this experience (though I know he won't remember).
I don't feel afraid now, at least not often. My memory is starting to fade, and this experience is now rarely at the front of my mind. But I still get emotional when I think back about that week. I tear up every time. What "could have been" - and could still be - haunts me sometimes.
I worry. I know it's part of parenting. But this worry seems magnified. I am working on choosing my worries wisely.
I'm not sure how to completely let go and trust that all is and will be well. I am unsure, but I am working on it.
This is my brokenness.
Please know: this has been a difficult post to write. I have had it started for weeks now. I know that some of the feelings I have shared are not logical. Whether or not my feelings are logical or even close to the reality of the situation is not the point. The fact that they are my feelings makes too them valid and important to be dismissed.
Thank you for sharing Megan.
ReplyDeleteEverything I think to write also sounds cliché. Thank you for sharing and for bringing back memories (I think I thank you for that part).
ReplyDeleteSending you a BIG HUG and red underwear love (odd, I know, but Megan will understand).
ReplyDeleteSomebody told me, or I read somewhere, that when your baby is in the NICU, you are forced to learn very quickly what most parents learn over the course of years - that so much of your child's life is outside your control. I don't know if it's even possible or necessary to totally let it go, but I certainly haven't. When Ezra had his first cold last month, I was a wreck. (He got better faster than Ross or I did.) There are all sorts of little things that bring back a flood of emotions. Nevertheless, as time goes on, I find myself dwelling on those months less.
ReplyDeleteSo true. I think that, before the NICU, I knew in my head that so much was out of my control, but during and since that week, I know in my heart that it's true. And there's such a big difference between the two.
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