The memory of their birth is incredibly traumatic. In fact, the whole experience, from the seven months of strict bed rest, the constant nervousness of their or my death happening at any moment, the complete loss of my last few precious months alone with just Lolli, was traumatic. It was hard. When I reflect back on it, probably the most valuable lesson (and probably one I am still continuing to be taught) is to take every single day one minute at a time. Seriously. Stop thinking so far ahead. Stop worrying so far along. I just have to deal with this minute, this moment, this contraction, or back ache, or bad medical news, or a thousand other "or's".
I think that happened because the future was too overwhelming. I was four weeks along when I was put on bed rest. That was escalated to strict bed rest a week later. If I thought in terms of the long months of laying down, I would have had a nervous breakdown. If I thought in terms of the overwhelming medical problems that our unborn babies were facing, I would've had a heart attack. If I did anything beyond handling each second on its own, I think I would have collapsed. It was completely bigger than I could have contemplated.
I did so much to try to prepare myself for their sick bodies. We were heavily warned. We were given videos to watch, tours of the NICU, books about sick preemie babies, classes... I did everything I could to prepare myself. We were very well warned that Grigio could die and IF he lived he'd be mentally handicapped for life. He'd probably not walk, talk, or do anything. There was just too much he didn't get...
The surgery was excruciating. When they wheeled me into the operating room, I was bawling my eyes out. I sat there sobbing uncontrollably. I remember apologizing to the nurse who was trying to comfort me because I just couldn't stop. I was so done. Psychologically. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. I had nothing left of myself and there I was, scraping the bottom of the barrel of my existence, trying to "let go" of the whole process. They were going to be born. And then we would see...
They were so sick. They were so tiny. Charchee was the only one who looked "normal" (if you can consider a 12 inch long 2 lb, 13 oz baby hooked up to a thousand machines monitoring her every move "normal"). Brun was so, so, so sick. Her skin was transparent. She was covered in hair. Her every single rib was incredibly pronounced (even when she was exhaling). She didn't open her eyes. She barely moved. She was so broken. Grigio was doing very well. His lungs weren't very strong, but considering they didn't expect him to live he was such a surprise! His "angel kisses" (cowlicks) were completely evident. One on the front of his head, and another on the back. I like to believe those were there where his guardian angel kissed away the lack of nourishment and nutrients and healed his brain.
The first year was hell. Literally. Leaving them at the hospital and coming home was hell. Bringing them home was hell. It was more difficult than I can adequately explain. It was painful and frustrating and terrifying and awful. There were no beautiful late-night moments of snuggles and kisses while they nursed. There were no moments sitting there with precious bonding. There was no time that we got to just be together because there was always another one to feed, or more pumping to do, or more diapers to change, or more notes to document for their doctors. In every single picture, Chief and I both look like we were the living dead. I'm not kidding you.
But now... Now I have three five year old children standing in front of me. Now I have three communicating, learning, walking, discovering, challenging, trusting, developing children in front of me. Now I don't have to change diapers anymore, or pump, or feed endlessly. Now we can go on "adventures" and discover things together. Now we can play in the backyard, or go to a museum, because their immune systems can handle it. Now we can sit and talk about life and flowers and why bees are black and yellow. Now we snuggle and cuddle and bond without the urgency of moving on to the next feeding, or life-need. Now when they're hurt, I can kiss their owies away, instead of standing by their hospital bedsides helplessly wanting to fix their ailments. Now we can talk about what foods to eat and why they're good instead of just rushing through one baby's feeding because the next two are screaming for theirs.
They're amazing children. And they're still hard, don't get me wrong, but things are so different now. We are no longer just surviving and I love that.
A woman asked me the other day at the store what my secret was because they're so well behaved. I told her that I couldn't take any credit. I said, "Truthfully, each day they choose to behave how they behave. Some times they make good choices and some times they make bad ones. I am so thankful that they most often choose to make good ones. We have poured out prayer for them, over them, with them from the second we knew of their existence and God deserves any credit that I could try to take for myself."
So today, in my heart, as I am preparing to celebrate my most precious triplets' birthdays in a week, I can only look at them and say Look what God has done!
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