November is always a whirlwind month for our family, wedged between Halloween and Thanksgiving, with my eldest son’s birthday smack in the middle. It kicks off a festive season that races us right into January. However, his birthday comes with bittersweet memories; it should have fallen a month later, after the holiday chaos had settled. Instead, I spent the first two weeks of November in and out of the hospital, trying to halt premature labor, followed by a grueling 69 days in the NICU.
Suddenly, our lives were filled with significant “firsts” that I had never anticipated experiencing so early: his first breath without a tube, the initial successful brain scan, and the first time I held him while tethered to a maze of wires, with nurses on standby, ready to whisk him away at the first sign of distress. My son entered the world at just 29 weeks, weighing a mere 2 pounds and 9 ounces. In those initial blurry days when I couldn’t hold him, I mistakenly thought he was just over 3 pounds. When I learned the truth, I crumbled into tears, wondering how I’d manage to produce breast milk amidst such heartache.
During that first year, I was haunted by feelings of guilt and fear about what I might have done wrong. Watching him endure two surgeries and battle RSV broke my heart. I vividly recall the day he didn’t smile at me six weeks past his due date. I convinced myself that this meant autism was on the horizon. Thankfully, he smiled just days later, but I remained overly cautious throughout his first year, searching for any signs of developmental delays.
On his first birthday, I was an emotional wreck. I had envisioned this day as a celebration of overcoming the struggles of having a premature baby, but instead, I awoke with tears already streaming down my face. My husband took care of our son that morning as I lay alone, drowning in memories of that tumultuous day a year prior. Gathering the strength to greet our guests, I approached my son for a birthday hug, my face a swollen mess, and the words “happy birthday” caught in my throat.
As the years passed, things softened a bit. My son transformed from a fragile infant into a lively toddler, and I began to feel a sense of relief. He was thriving, right on track for his age—yet with that relief came a fresh wave of guilt. Despite my perceived failures, he was flourishing. Shouldn’t I have been his protector?
The memories of my past miscarriages lingered, serving as a reminder that often, we know little about the causes of such events, yet the narrative tends to rest heavily on the mother’s shoulders. I grappled with guilt not just for his prematurity but also for feeling guilty about it. After all, he’s doing great now, right? He’s turning 6 this month, strong and healthy, excelling in kindergarten. Most people are surprised to learn he was a preemie, as I rarely mention it anymore.
Nevertheless, this November, those emotions are creeping back in. With each passing day, I find myself tearing up more easily. As always, I’ll shed tears on his birthday while also celebrating the wonderful child he’s become.
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In summary, the journey of parenting a premature baby is filled with complex emotions, from overwhelming guilt to immense joy. While the scars of that experience linger, they coexist with the pride and love for a thriving child.
Keyphrase: Premature birth guilt
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