Dear Mom,
I see the worry etched on your face. The fear, the uncertainty, the overwhelming sense of defeat—I’ve been there. My twin boys, Alex and Liam, entered the world seven weeks early on a frigid January morning in Boston. The doctors warned me that premature infants, particularly boys, often face steeper challenges. That news was terrifying.
In those initial days, I watched as my sons began to breathe, cry, and feed without issue. I felt grateful, anticipating the day we would bring them home. But then the doctor called with unsettling news: “Alex is showing some concerning signs.” That night was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. I could only watch helplessly as my babies were pricked for blood tests, their tiny cries echoing my own distress.
The diagnosis was RSV, a common cold that can pose severe risks to premature infants. I watched them battle for each breath, surrounded by beeping machines that monitored their heart rates and oxygen levels. The medical team worked tirelessly, while my husband and mother ensured I took care of myself, fueling my strength to provide milk for my boys. Friends and family sent prayers and uplifting thoughts, creating a supportive network around us.
In those quiet moments in the NICU, I found solace in the letters and photos displayed on the walls, testimonials from parents who had walked a similar path. Their stories of triumph and gratitude offered me hope. Each note was a reminder that brighter days lay ahead. I vowed to share my own story of perseverance if Alex and Liam emerged from this battle victorious—an annual letter for 18 years, a promise to inspire others.
Now, sixteen years later, I can still vividly recall those days in the NICU, the anxiety of fellow parents, and the beeping machines that filled the room. I hope this letter brings you some comfort during your long days and sleepless nights. Here’s what I want you to know: Our boys left the NICU after four weeks, and we took them home, strapping them into car seats for the first time.
With careful vigilance, we watched them grow. Alex and Liam smiled right away, then sat up, crawled, walked, and eventually ran—all in perfect timing. They thrived, discovering their world with curiosity. They had their share of typical sibling squabbles, like when Alex bit Liam during teething or when Liam got a toy stuck in his ear. These moments, I learned, were entirely normal.
As they grew, they played tee-ball, danced to music, and excelled in school. Alex became a skilled bassist and a mediator among friends, while Liam took to the stage, winning accolades in acting competitions. They have become remarkable young men—funny, sweet, and slightly addicted to their phones. They are now healthy, with Alex towering over six feet and playing basketball, while Liam stands at 5’11” and has a knack for impressions.
These were the very worries that consumed me during that cold January morning so long ago. I know you’re standing there now, over your precious baby in a bed that seems far too large for them. Trust in your medical team, the support around you, and the love that will guide you through this journey. I hope that one day, like me, you too will write letters celebrating your family’s happy ending.
Sending you all my warmth and support. I look forward to reconnecting with the incredible nurses and doctors who helped us through this time next year.