For many moms of preemies, birthdays carry a different weight. The night when our little ones entered the world often comes wrapped in trauma. For numerous mothers, those moments were not only about welcoming life but also about grappling with fear for their own health and their children’s survival. As I near the second birthday of my twins, a whirlwind of emotions swells within me. Yes, I am deeply thankful, but there’s also a lingering sadness. It’s perfectly acceptable to reminisce about the anxiety and pain that accompanied their birth, for it was indeed a mix of all those feelings.
I spent two weeks on bed rest; the first week was in the hospital, and the second at home as my labor thankfully stalled. On the night before their arrival, I began to feel a sense of unease. My daughter seemed to move less than usual, and while I would feel her kick occasionally, I brushed it off as paranoia. The next day, however, my instinct told me something was not right, yet I continued to feel her movements and dismissed my concerns again.
By the afternoon, a backache crept in. Initially mild, the pain escalated, but without contractions, I didn’t think much of it. My mother-in-law was visiting, and as anxiety began to build, I attempted to stay calm for her sake. I quietly stepped into the next room to call my OB/GYN, who advised me to keep monitoring the situation.
When my husband returned home and my mother-in-law left, the pain intensified to the point of tears. I called my doctor again and was told to come in if it got worse—and it certainly was. On the way to the hospital, I felt increasingly nauseous and lightheaded. My husband dropped me off at the entrance for quicker assessment while he parked the car.
Standing at the labor and delivery desk, a wave of embarrassment washed over me. I had felt this way during my entire labor experience, as if I were somehow to blame for my body not cooperating with my sweet babies. When the nurse inquired about how far along I was, I replied, “27 weeks.” She mistakenly thought I said “37” and I felt shame settle in my stomach. As my condition worsened, a nurse rushed in with a wheelchair.
I expressed my discomfort repeatedly, but the nurse remained calm. Up until that point, my symptoms might have mirrored that of any woman in labor, despite being preterm. However, once the nurse placed fetal monitors on my stomach to check for heartbeats, panic set in.
Suddenly, a doctor, an anesthesiologist, and two nurses entered the room. They were composed, yet the gravity of the situation was clear—Baby B’s heart rate was dangerously low at 80 beats per minute, far below what’s considered normal. The doctor confirmed that they were going to monitor the heart rate, and if it didn’t improve, a C-section would be necessary. This was all happening within 20 minutes of my arrival.
As the heart rate remained low, the code for a C-section was called, and the medical team sprang into action. The doctor explained the situation to me, while asking for an IV to be expedited. The anesthesiologist then inquired when I last ate, and upon learning it was just an hour ago, he expressed concern about potential complications. In a panic, I instructed my husband to notify my parents as I was whisked away. The speed at which they moved was overwhelming.
There wasn’t enough space in the operating room for my husband, who was left behind as they carefully transferred me to the table. I recalled the anesthesiologist’s warning about avoiding food in my lungs and found myself hoping for a safe outcome. As oxygen was placed over my face, everything faded to black.
I awoke in recovery, the first thought on my mind was about my babies. The nurses who had so efficiently prepared me for surgery reassured me that they were stable in the NICU. When my husband entered, he brought pictures, but instead of joy, I felt ashamed and angry. This wasn’t the experience I had envisioned, and as he smiled, I told him that this was not a happy moment. I asked if he still liked the names we had chosen, and despite everything, I named them then and there. The thought of my children nameless in the NICU, relying on machines for survival, filled me with profound sadness.
My daughter, Lily, was born at 9:14 PM, weighing two pounds seven ounces, with a heart rate of just 60 beats per minute—she had been saved just in time. Her brother, Noah, came into the world at the same time, weighing two pounds four ounces.
As I was wheeled into the NICU for the first time, the doors opened to a world filled with hand sanitizer, beeping machines, and vigilant medical staff. It was a realm where every moment was uncertain, where parents prayed for their little ones and navigated the relentless cycle of pumping milk until their babies could eat on their own.
Seeing them for the first time felt surreal; it was as if they belonged more to the machines than to me. That initial meeting didn’t carry the joyful weight that so many mothers experience; instead, it felt strange and almost wrong, a stark reminder of the circumstances surrounding their birth.
So, this is what fills my mind as their birthday approaches. I see their radiant smiles and hear their laughter, yet the echoes of fear and the beeping of the NICU still resonate within me. Birthdays can be complicated for preemie moms. We carry the weight of our experiences. Yes, our babies are healthy now, but that doesn’t erase the struggles we faced.
I share my story to remind others they are not alone. To my fellow NICU moms: you’ve got this. Even when it feels like everything is falling apart, know that you are enough. For more heartfelt stories, you can visit our blog here. Also, for those seeking support on related topics, check out this resource for guidance. If you’re looking for excellent information about pregnancy and home insemination, don’t miss the Cleveland Clinic’s resource.
In summary, the night my twins were born was a whirlwind of emotions—fear, gratitude, and a sense of loss. As I celebrate their birthdays, I reflect on the journey and remind fellow preemie moms that their experiences are valid.