Today my triplets are four. I am amazed when I sit and contemplate all that has transpired between then and now. I am amazed to consider all that has changed and all that has come and gone. I suppose if I state it quite literally, my life is nothing like I imagined four years ago...but then again, to be honest, I don't know exactly what it is I imagined then, if there was anything at all. You see, for me, valentine's if forever...their birthday. It isn't chipper, happy, joyful, like so many mother's want their children's birthdays to be. It is painful. It is tainted with guilt (which has faded slightly this year). It is laced with horrible imagery, and the permanence of goodbye. It was, quite frankly, the most excruciating experience of my life.
I hear that one day I will no longer feel this way. I have heard that with the passage of time, I will begin to mark their birthdays as accomplishments. I have heard that eventually the sadness of goodbyes, and the complete destruction of the beautiful moments that all mothers visualize on their children's birthdays, will eventually disappear and become some distant memory. I have heard that this day will morph and change into a symphony of joy and laughter in the sheer wonder of how my amazing husband and I have made it through, and how very much our precious miracles have grown and changed. I have heard. But I'm not there yet.
You see, to me, this day is when I remember. We start every single birthday off with a blessing and a story. First, we thank God for another year completed and looking forward to the year ahead. We ask Him to guide, protect and take care of each child. Then we go through the story of their birth. It's a sort of fun way to bring into reality the crazy, funny, silliness of each of our children's coming into this world.
For my oldest triplet, that story is intense. You see...I wasn't numb when they began my C-section. I felt every cut, but under threat of general anesthesia, I bit my lip and tried to prevent myself from screaming (which I amazingly did while he cut through my skin). But when he got to my stomach muscles and uterus, my body reacted to the complete agony. By then it was too late to stop and A was already on her way out. By the time she was completely out, I was asleep. I have no idea the circumstance of B and C. I wasn't awake. This is the beginning of what felt awful.
I awoke in post op in a panic. I remember the second I could see light I immediately starting asking about them. I am amazed that I was lucid enough to ask, but it shows the overwhelming fear. My babies were born at thirty weeks. And I knew all of the odds against them. I knew that they would be in the NICU and that everything would be completely different from my birth experience with my oldest. I knew in a intellectual sense, but had no idea what I was about to face.
Even now, as I sit here and remember what occurred four years ago, my eyes are filling with tears and an emotional agony sweeps over me. Even now, with my three healthy, intelligent, beautiful four year olds asleep in their beds...it still hurts my heart. My arms feel empty. And I am broken.
I remember when they wheeled me into see them, that night...my first thought was, "I killed my babies". It was literally what I thought. They were so small. To say small doesn't even do it justice. You know a small bandaid? That was the size of their blood pressure cuff. Yeah...the CUFF! Diapers? They about the size of a silver dollar...and they were huge on the trips. Their skin? Transparent. Their legs? A little bit longer than my pointer finger. Their ribs? Could see every. single. one. Their lungs?...The space between their lungs was such a giant hole that I honestly could not imagine them looking any differently.
I was "prepared" for them to be sick. But yet I had no idea what I was going to see. To this day I don't even know how to explain the emotions. I don't think I have words.
I have a video that I made the day they told us that my smallest triplet had the beginning of bowel death. I made the video because I had to go home to take care of my oldest and I wanted it in case she died. That's how it was then. Life or death. Every hour, it was a new stress... In the video, I am begging her to fight. I remember when I was sitting there in the room, draped over her isolette (which is shaped like a coffin, I would just like to point out), bawling my eyes out and begging her, begging God, begging the world, to not let her die. I remember sitting there when "A" would de stat and her heart rate would be in the 40s and her O2 would be at about the same level and the nurses would rush in there and start messing with her and hurting her, in order to get her to react, wake up, and start beating her heart and breathing again. I remember holding my son while he turned completely gray, then blue, because he de statted and took forever to come out of it. I remember the nurses telling me I couldn't hold my children, or stick my fingers in their isolettes because their temperatures were too low. Can you imagine not being able to hold your newborn baby? Try that one on for size for weeks! We weren't allowed to touch our oldest triplet at all for the first two weeks of her life. We were just allowed to stand over her bed and talk to her through the glass. She was the sickest at first. I remember being struck by the fact that they were so weak that their cries were barely audible. They were like whisper cries. Imagine standing there, watching your baby cry...and not being able to hold them, or touch them. Just standing there...helpless.
The day they discharged me from the hospital was another form of torture. Here I was...going home to empty cribs, empty car seats, empty bouncy seats, swings, and all that comes with it...All of my constant reminders that my babies were fighting for their lives, because MY body wasn't capable of holding them in longer.
All of these scenarios are only skimming the surface of the seven weeks that I experienced children in the NICU. They are powerful and emotional. They are painful...STILL! But yet, on the flip side of the coin with the memories of so much heartache, are the moments when they said, "Her intestines healed!" When they said, "She hasn't de statted anymore, so no more caffeine and heart monitors for her!" When they said, "He weighs five pounds!" When they said, "You get to take them home!" ..... You get to take them home...
My miracles are four years old. They are beautiful and intelligent. They are head strong, and resilient. They are gentle and sensitive. They are caring and giving. They are amazing. They are beyond what I could have ever imagined and so much more than I could have hoped. They are HEALTHY!
I can't even begin to tell you about how blessed I am. I am blessed to have the painful start to their lives. I am blessed to know the sadness of goodbyes, and the appreciativeness of the irritating situations that toddlers put you through. I am thankful for their "challenges". I love every single second of life with them. I am thankful that God has given me such a beautiful, personal, perspective on appreciating my children. That He has allowed me to experience the very real possibility of losing them, and that in so doing, He has shown me that every moment, every second, is a very beautiful gift. Life is so fragile. I am thankful that I learned to appreciate them when they were so little. I think too often, parents forget to do that. At least I know I have been guilty of that.
I am so thankful. I will tell you though, every year my husband and I have a bit of a laugh as we travel down memory lane. We always say, "They haven't killed us yet...but tomorrow, we are certain, they will continue trying." haha.
Okay, in all seriousness though, I really can't wait to see how they will change throughout this next year. I am so blessed that I get to be a part of it.
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