November is always a whirlwind for my family, sandwiched between Halloween and Thanksgiving, with my oldest son’s birthday nestled right in the middle. It’s a time filled with festivities and chaos, but it also brings a flood of mixed emotions. His birthday should be celebrated a month after the holiday frenzy, but that’s not how it unfolded.
The first half of November six years ago was marked by hospital visits as I desperately tried to halt premature labor. Instead of the joy of welcoming a new baby, we faced 69 long days in the NICU. All the milestones that typically accompany a newborn—Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year—were thrust upon us much too soon. I experienced countless “firsts” in those early days: the first time my son breathed on his own, the first successful brain scan, and my first moment holding him—both of us connected to an assortment of wires and tubes, with nurses always ready to whisk him away at the first sign of trouble.
Born at just 29 weeks and 1 day, he weighed a mere 2 pounds 9 ounces. In those early, blurry days when I couldn’t touch him, I mistakenly thought he had crossed the 3-pound mark. “At least he made it to 3 pounds,” I kept telling myself, until I learned the truth and fell apart. I still wonder how I managed to produce breast milk amidst the tears.
Throughout that first year, I was consumed by guilt over what I might have done wrong, constantly worrying about the potential repercussions on his health. Watching him endure surgeries and a bout of RSV shattered my heart. I remember the day I fell apart when he didn’t smile at me exactly six weeks after his due date; I feared this was an early sign of autism. Thankfully, he smiled just days later, but I remained hyper-vigilant throughout his first year.
By the time his first birthday arrived, I was an emotional mess. I had anticipated this day as a celebration of having overcome the struggles of having a premature baby, yet I found myself alone, overwhelmed by memories of that fateful day a year earlier. As I faced our guests, my face was a swollen mess, and the words “happy birthday” felt lodged in my throat.
As the years passed and he transitioned from a baby to a spirited toddler, I began to feel a sense of relief. I told myself he had thrived despite my fears, but then the guilt crept back in—wasn’t it my responsibility to protect him and ensure he had the best start in life? Memories of my many miscarriages haunted me, reminding me that the reasons behind such events often remain a mystery. The language surrounding pregnancy loss can be harsh, often placing blame on the mother.
Now, as my son turns 6, he is healthy and thriving, right at the 50th percentile for height and flourishing in kindergarten. I seldom mention his premature birth anymore; most people are surprised to learn he arrived so early. I recognize how fortunate we are, as many preemies face much more severe challenges. Yet, as November rolls around each year, those feelings of guilt resurface. I know I’ll shed some tears on his birthday, reflecting on the journey we have traveled together.
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Summary:
Six years after my son’s premature birth, I still grapple with guilt and emotions surrounding that traumatic experience. The journey from the NICU to celebrating his birthday has been a mix of joy and remorse, particularly as I reflect on the challenges of motherhood and the fears that accompany raising a child who began life so precariously.