October 11th, 2011....

When I awoke this morning, as per usual, Little Bird was the first person on my mind. A thousand questions since yesterday. How was her night last night? Did she sleep well? Did they restart her feeds yet? Does she miss us? I think about everything when I think about her. But this morning, there was one realization in particular that threatened to hold me to the bed before I even had the chance to stand up. 


Today would have been my anticipated due date. 


I was again reminded of this when I logged into my email account to check messages. An automated send from a long forgotten website I subscribed to months ago. Congratulations! You are forty weeks pregnant! Except, we never made it that far. With everything that's transpired over the course of the past few months, I never imagined I'd even have the time to dwell on something so virtually unimportant at this point. I'm ashamed to admit that it even bothers me, though I don't know why. Only about ten percent of pregnant women ever deliver exactly on schedule. I knew that from the beginning. Still, it sucks to look back on what the last ninety four days should have been like. 

I should have been driving MFH up a wall in my demands for the living room furniture to be rearranged, one more time. I should have been making everyone around me gag as they witnessed me eating some of the most disgusting food combinations to ever be craved. I should have been whining and complaining that even the ugliest of maternity apparel no longer fit. Or that heart burn and leg cramps were keeping me from getting any sleep. I should have been folding and refolding onesies and receiving blankets, and obsessively over-packing too many bags for what would have been a very brief visit on the local maternity ward. I should be second guessing the decision of a name that everyone would have cringed at, but smiled politely anyway when they heard it and said "Oh, that's cute!".

Like I said, I don't know why this bothers me so much. Especially now. We've made it this far. The past three months were the impossible, but we made it this far. She made it. And when I remind myself of that, it is a relief beyond words. Maybe it's the knowing that we will never experience it again. Almost instantly after Little Bird arrived, I knew in my head and in my heart that I would have never ventured into that pregnancy had I had any inkling that she'd have been forced to endure such a struggle for her life. And I know that I will never put another child in that position ever again. 

I had complications while carrying the other kids. I've made no secret about that. But never once did the doctors who have been treating me for the last fifteen years ever once predict an outcome like this. Only one time was the topic ever mentioned, and that was during what would ultimately be my last prenatal appointment. Because of a history of surgical births, he did warn me. He said that any future pregnancies beyond Little Bird could result in uterine rupture, and that I'd likely not make it to the hospital in time to survive a possible bleed out. After having that conversation with him, I had the same one with MFH on our way home that afternoon. We both concluded that doctor knew best, and that she would be the last. Three boys, and three girls. We have our six pack, and we couldn't ask for more. That day, and just nine before she was ultimately born, we were happy just to count our blessings in the fact that we'd made it to twenty five weeks. 

Believe me, I will always be grateful for that. After being hospitalized back in May, we didn't think we'd have any time with her at all. I was twenty weeks when the problems arose, well before any chance at viability. Every day beyond that was a little celebration for us. It still is. The night she was born, I laid in that hospital bed thinking "If we only get one day, it's not for nothing. She's here now, for whatever length of time that may be. We have to make the best of it, for her". And we will. But sometimes that's easier said than done.

It's so hard to ignore the facts when they're staring you in the eye. Odds. Percentages. Outcomes. I think I've reached a point where I don't want to know. Sometimes, it is better to be blind. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss. If Little Bird is never able to jump into the pool with her siblings, we'll turn her bath times into Wild Water Kingdom. If she can't run, we'll buy her a Radio Flyer and pull her up and down the block in it, as fast she she'll allow us to. We will celebrate Thanksgiving with turkey sandwiches in the hospital cafeteria, and Christmas in the NICU as well if need be. A very good friend recently said to me, "Don't worry that she might never throw a tantrum, at least she'll be able to flip you the bird when she's pissed!". I laugh at the prospect of this, because she's right. She'll probably be the only kid on the planet who's given a free pass by her parents to get away with obscene sign language.

Tonight, she sleeps. Comfortably sedated from the pain of the tracheotomy she endured yesterday. Six pounds, eight ounces. What she should have weighed, had she been born now...

(These were taken before the surgery)

She probably won't remember any of this, and that is by far the best bright side of this whole journey. If she could make the decision herself, I think it's safe to say she wouldn't want these memories, either. I hope that by the time she is able to recollect any of it, it will be nothing more than a fuzzy dream. Maybe in enough time, the good flashbacks will outweigh the bad for us, too. I would much rather the impressions of those short lived weeks before all hell broke loose. Before the bed rest. Before anyone aside from MFH and I knew that our family was about to become a little bit bigger. Things were certainly easier then. Things were safe. She was safe. Back when we were unaware.






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