Eighteen years ago today I lie in wait. For the little boy who was to arrive but much too early. I had hoped that this day would be much later than the 24 weeks that he was ever so eager to arrive by. I had hoped that all would go well but deep down I knew, as a mother knows (and with the knowledge of a pediatric nurse) that this day we would meet our son, have to say our goodbye's, and that we would not be taking him home.
There were so many challenges against him. Since 20 weeks he had already endured, a ruptured placenta, a ruptured amniotic sac, and pulmonary hypoplasia ( the under development of his lungs that would inhibit his ability to breath on his own). Till then, in my lifetime, I would
have never imagined ever having to experience the loss of a child but there I was waiting to say goodbye not knowing where life would take me and my husband next. Wondering how this would impact our two oldest children. How sad that day was. Yet there still seemed to be a feeling of calmness, a connection, a comfort in knowing what to expect. And so much love.
Once in the NICU, we held him in our arms. We counted his perfect 10 little toes and 10 little fingers, talked about how perfect he was. At 1 lb. 12oz. and 12 inches long he was beautiful. We remarked how much he looked like his older brother. We took comfort in seeing his tiny body relax when we were near and talking to him. We held him as he took his last breath. Giving him kisses. Once the nurses removed all the medical equipment we were able to spend the day
together as a family in our room. We introduced him to his older brother and sister. Talked about how tiny he was
and how cute he was, and we sat for a family photo.
A photo that will mean more than anything for the rest of my days.