To My Dearest Conor,
It's May 21, and your birthday as you know was April 14. I've been meaning to write this letter for weeks, but it's hard to find cracks in the days to take time to write.
But I know if I don't do it now, I won't do it, and I can't let another day slip by.
And if I'm honest with myself and with you, I think I've been putting it off simply because I've been putting off the emotions that will come with the writing of this letter. I've been putting off the trauma, the pain and the grief, and the endless tears that are already streaming down my face, and we've only just begun.
And I can't help but think about the truth behind those words...we've only just begun. Our journey with you has only just begun.
And here we stand, a year removed from your birth story. And 10 months (to the day) removed from your NICU stay, and I'm still in shock that you've been outside the womb for over 365 days now. This has felt like the longest year yet and the shortest year yet. I feel like I blinked and we arrived at a year.
And I'd love to be able to say all of this (birth story) feels like a distant memory, and to be honest, it does feel like a lifetime ago, but as I read over my thoughts, the tears just stream down my face and the emotions come flooding back.
I remember that day. My sister came over to watch your brothers, and your dad, Uncle Mark and I ventured to Northwest hospital for a routine ultrasound that was scheduled at 1 PM. Let it be known you were born at UW Hospital at 8:35 PM.
It's wild to think about all that transpired in those 7.5 hours. And in all honesty, it's kind of blurry, the ultrasound, the childbirth center at northwest, the transfer to UW, the magnesium, the high blood pressure, the low heartbeats (yours and mine), the operating room, the anesthesia, waking up from said anesthesia, the pain meds.
Yet, when I read my words, I can see myself on all fours as they tried to capture your heartbeat. I can feel the fear in the room, I can feel the fear in my own body. I can remember how tense the air was and how fast everyone and everything was moving. There was such a tremendous sense of urgency as they rushed me to the operating room, as we waited to see if your heartbeat came back up.
And I remember them saying, it's coming up...and breathing a sigh of relief, but then it stalled at 110, which meant it was go time and they were going forward with the emergency c-section.
And I can envision myself on the operating table, asking question after question, how long will it take for me to go under? How long will the surgery last? How long until I wake up? When will my husband know about me and the baby? I just remember thinking, it's all happening so fast. I remember telling them all of this as they graciously removed my oxygen mask with each question and comment I fired at them.
It was such an out of body experience, and the urgency in the room was palpable.
I remember thinking, this could be it, one of us could die here on this operating table.
I remember thinking, time slow down. I've never done this before. I've never had general anesthesia. I've never been fully asleep for any of my babies arrivals.
And I felt so alone and scared.
I wish I could go back and tell that terrified mama on that operating table that everything will be okay. It most definitely won't be the birth story she imagined, but it will be okay, and it will be yours. I wish I could tell her just how deep her love will run for you, how much you complete their family, how much your brothers will cherish you, and how smitten your dada will be with you. I wish I could tell her to brace herself as it will most definitely be her hardest year yet, but she will come out stronger, you will come out stronger, every single one of us will come out stronger.
And we will all better for it.
Oh my sweet boy, how I wish you had a different start to this world, but this is the start that was chosen for you. May I continue to lean into the joy and the pain that flows through me when I reflect back on the start of our journey.
And may I never lose sight of how far you've come. It's truly overwhelming to think about all the things you've overcome this last year. You started off your days in an incubator, with a feeding tube and breathing support. You've endured so many doctors appointments, so much poking and prodding, so many tests, so many setbacks and milestones (eventually) met. It felt never ending at times.
Yet, by the grace of God, here we are. We're still standing. I've never felt so weak in all my life, yet I knew He was holding me up, giving me the strength to carry on, giving me the strength to endure each day.
And now, a year later, you are sleeping in a proper crib, flat on your back, just like a normal babe, without anything hooked to your body. You are sucking down your bottles, shoveling food in your face and rolling around on the floor next to me.
And I can't believe we've finally arrived at this stage.
You are such a treasure from the Lord. You are so deeply loved, not only by your dad and I and your brothers, but also by your Creator. He is the one that knit you together in my womb, He is the one who created you. He is the one who will hold you and carry you through the hard things in life. May we never forget that you are His. What a privilege it is to care for you and what an incredible privilege it is to be your mama.
I can't even wait to witness how your life story unfolds. May we never take a single moment of it for granted. We love you so much!
Happy first birthday Conor Christopher!
To Him be the glory,
Mama
No comments:
Post a Comment