It is often asked "How many weeks was he?" or "How much did he weigh?" when the topic of my son being premature arises. These answers have become routine, the words flow out of my mouth before my brain can even formulate a sentence; it's almost a reflex. The truth is, however, having a preemie and enduring a NICU stay is anything but routine. That is why we need NICU Awareness Month.
I've seen what a two-pound baby looks like. I've seen translucent skin, tinted blue, peering out beneath tangled wires and tubes. I've seen a life stop breathing and a chest rise and fall with the help of a machine. I've seen eyes fused shut. I've seen hands the size of my fingertips, a head that fits in my palm, and a bottom that sits on three of my fingers. I've seen countless needles and heel pricks. I've seen an unbelievably small body under bright lights. I've seen an incubator shrouded with medical professionals day after day, planning the best course of survival for my newborn son.
I've heard what a two-pound baby sounds like. I've heard medical jargon that I cannot pronounce. I've heard tiny cries from small, struggling lungs. I've heard flat-lining and machine alarms blaring with urgency. I've heard statistics and odds and rates of survival.
I've felt what a two-pound baby feels like. I've felt a stiff body that doesn't move. I've felt skin still downy with thick lanugo. I've felt a baby that is next to weightless. I've felt my heart shatter with every moment I had to leave my son behind. I've felt the air leave my lungs with every machine alarm. I've felt a tiny, yet mighty, force clinging on to life.
I have witnessed obstacles. I have witnessed deterioration. I have witnessed indescribable courage and strength. I have witnessed the life of the NICU.
I have also seen my son survive, change statistics, beat the odds, and defy all expectations. I've seen a baby unable to breathe on his own become a toddler with a lust for life, who dances, laughs, and takes steps. I've felt his arms wrap around my neck and I've heard his sweet voice say "mama." I have been one of the lucky ones able to witness a miracle.
I've seen what a two-pound baby looks like. I've seen translucent skin, tinted blue, peering out beneath tangled wires and tubes. I've seen a life stop breathing and a chest rise and fall with the help of a machine. I've seen eyes fused shut. I've seen hands the size of my fingertips, a head that fits in my palm, and a bottom that sits on three of my fingers. I've seen countless needles and heel pricks. I've seen an unbelievably small body under bright lights. I've seen an incubator shrouded with medical professionals day after day, planning the best course of survival for my newborn son.
I've heard what a two-pound baby sounds like. I've heard medical jargon that I cannot pronounce. I've heard tiny cries from small, struggling lungs. I've heard flat-lining and machine alarms blaring with urgency. I've heard statistics and odds and rates of survival.
I've felt what a two-pound baby feels like. I've felt a stiff body that doesn't move. I've felt skin still downy with thick lanugo. I've felt a baby that is next to weightless. I've felt my heart shatter with every moment I had to leave my son behind. I've felt the air leave my lungs with every machine alarm. I've felt a tiny, yet mighty, force clinging on to life.
I have witnessed obstacles. I have witnessed deterioration. I have witnessed indescribable courage and strength. I have witnessed the life of the NICU.
I have also seen my son survive, change statistics, beat the odds, and defy all expectations. I've seen a baby unable to breathe on his own become a toddler with a lust for life, who dances, laughs, and takes steps. I've felt his arms wrap around my neck and I've heard his sweet voice say "mama." I have been one of the lucky ones able to witness a miracle.
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