Tag: new mom

For this child I prayed.

My daughter was a preemie. At 4.5 lbs she was by far the tiniest baby I had ever held, but she was among the bigger babies on the block in the NICU. The doctors called her an “easy baby” when they’d round on her, a process that took no more than a few minutes because she really didn’t have too many major challenges. She hadn’t yet figured out that food was delicious (which made me question whether or not she was really my child) and thus had to be fed through a nasogastric tube. And when she did eat she’d occasionally get so into the experience that she’d forget to breathe (which sounds a lot more like me as anyone who has ever seen me go to town on a plate of nachos can attest). She just needed a couple of weeks to catch up, weeks she should have still had on the inside but that were stolen from her by her total lack of patience (another trait she acquired from me).

Now don’t get me wrong, having an “easy” baby doesn’t make living the NICU life any less terrifying. I have yet to experience anything more difficult than the pain of walking away from a hospital after giving birth and leaving my baby behind (and I’ve been through some stuff). But looking around at the other babies, several of whom had 100+ day badges pinned to their cribs, gave me an appreciation for just how easy my little girl was. We were home in under two weeks which means the majority of my sleepless nights in the past 3.5 months (which is just over 100 days) have been spent with her by my bedside rather than in a hospital several miles away.

I got to know some of the other NICU parents during our brief stay, even though COVID restrictions kept us from congregating and chatting in common spaces. The 100+ day parents had clear routines down pat. Moms and Dads would come and go in shifts often working around the needs of other children at home as well as their work schedules, having long ago run out of maternity/paternity leave at their jobs. Their not so easy babies received a lot more attention than mine. Many were recovering from operations or waiting to see if they could gather enough strength in their tiny bodies to undergo another procedure (and another and another and another). I was in awe of the strength each parent had, and couldn’t help but get caught up in their stories as they talked about the challenges their itty bitty babies had already faced in their very short lives.

But there were no parents visiting the little girl in the bed next to my own child’s. She was a baby who was born nearly six weeks ahead of my Logan, but was still only about half her size. I marveled at the tiny hand that would occasionally reach up and seemingly wave at me from inside the isolette. I longed to touch her and ached for her to receive the same loving embraces that the children around her were receiving. It’s not that she wasn’t getting any attention, quite the opposite actually. Unlike my easy baby this little girl was anything but. She had round the clock 1:1 nursing coverage, generally with the most experienced NICU nurse on the shift from what I could gather, so the chair next to her crib was almost never empty. When her alarms would go off, which was often, an entire team would gather to attend to whatever need had arisen. And there were no fewer than four hands on her for every diaper change so that no wire or tube was out of place for any longer than necessary.

I had a lot of time to think in the hours I spent each day holding and rocking my new baby. I wondered why the little girl in the corner was alone (or at least as alone as a baby can be with such amazing and extensive care). I thought about my own struggle to have a child and how long I’d waited to become a mother. I thought about how my little girl was going to grow up without her Dad, how heartbreaking that was for most people to grasp, and yet here was a little girl who was beginning her life without either parent at her side. And I thought about people in my life who were waiting to adopt, who had hoped and prayed for a child of their own, and how they too would ache to see such a sweet tiny soul lying alone in a tiny hospital bed.

Each morning as I walked by her crib I would say hello and good morning, and say a prayer that she would overcome each obstacle that was placed in her way while waiting patiently for whatever parent or parents God had planned for her. Before heading home in the evenings I’d remind both little girls to behave, mind the nurses, and not stay up all night giggling. And then, after kissing my little girl goodnight, I’d smile at the baby girl in the corner and say another silent prayer before leaving both babies behind.

On the day I left the hospital with my little girl in my arms I cried happy tears mixed with a few sad ones as I watched that tiny hand in the corner reach up and wave one last time. It broke my heart not knowing what would become of her. Was she strong enough to fight through all of the challenges that face the world’s tiniest babies? Would she be adopted into a loving home? Would the world be kinder to her as the years went by than it had been in her earliest days of life?

A month or so after our homecoming one of those friends who was waiting to adopt posted on social media that she’d finally gotten the call she had been waiting for. She and her husband were the proud new parents of a beautiful 6 lb baby girl, who just needed to spend a little more time growing in the NICU. My mind immediately went to that little girl in the corner isolette. I was thrilled for the new parents, and for the little girl they were adopting, and their story filled me with hope that the little girl I’d prayed for had found her happily-ever-after story as well.

But as I read the details of their adoption story it all seemed a little too coincidental. The birthdate. The timeline. Sure, she weighed 6 lbs now, but she was already nearing four months old so she had to have been one of those itty bitty little preemies at one point. I didn’t want to pry, but I just had to know and so I sent a message to the new mom asking for a few extra details, and to my surprise and delight, confirmed that the newly adopted baby girl was the same child for whom I had prayed. She was alive. She was growing, more than three times the size she had been the last time I saw her. And she had finally made her way into the loving arms of her parents.

In addition to the prayers for a long, happy life and loving home for this little girl, I had also asked for a sign that she was ok. The worrying part of being a new mom came very naturally to me, so it feels great to no longer worry about whether or not she’ll be cared for. I feel privileged to be able to watch her grow up through the magical lens of social media. And maybe one day I’ll even have the chance to drop Logan off for a sleepover and before heading home remind her to behave, mind Sophia’s mom and dad, and not stay up all night giggling, before saying a silent prayer for both little girls.

“For this child I prayed, and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him.” 1 Samuel 1:27-28

Logan Clare: An Origin Story

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You were born in the midst of a May snowstorm, but that’s hardly the most remarkable thing about your birth story. Bringing you into this world took years of planning, hoping, and dreaming. The road to your arrival includes a tragic love story, the emergence and destruction of a superhero, a high tech scientific laboratory, a pandemic, and a myriad of plot twists worthy of a full length feature film (or perhaps even a trilogy).

For years your Father and I talked about having children. We tried, in the way many young couples do, but were somehow unsuccessful in growing our family beyond the two of us (and the menagerie of pets we’d acquired). At one point we were successful in conceiving the child who would have been your older sibling, but they were gone from the portrait we were painting for our future almost as quickly as they had first appeared. While we were still grappling with that loss, life suddenly threw us one of the most cruel and complex curveballs we could ever imagine.

At some point in your life, when you encounter difficulty, someone may say something like – “look, it’s not brain surgery!” While their point may be to belittle the extent of your struggle with a flippant retort, the remark they are making is rooted in the fact that brain surgery is really freaking hard. And it doesn’t matter if you’re the actual brain surgeon (although yes, their role is exceptionally difficult), the patient, or one of the people who has to sit by and wait to find out how successful the operation was… brain surgery is, indeed, really freaking hard. And your Dad had three of them in under a week’s time.

The first operation was largely successful, as 80% of the tumor invading his brain was ultimately removed. The second, also a success, as the massive hemorrhage created during the first procedure was repaired. And the third, also successful, as the neurosurgeon was able to relieve the swelling that developed in the days following the first two efforts. But as your Dad began to wake up, it was clear he was no longer himself. The series of operations had changed the very fiber of his existence.

Now I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself, but your Dad, who had previously been just a “normal guy” (normal to others, anyways, I always thought he was pretty exceptional), had emerged from brain surgery as an actual, honest-to-goodness superhero. Some of his doctors brushed it off as a drug and surgery driven delusion, but I saw it with my own eyes. No tall buildings were lept in a single bound, but marathons were conquered and, with the drive and determination your Dad displayed, I think he could have taken on a building if that’s what he’d put his mind to.

For 28 months, your Dad fought everything that was thrown at him. He knew that the cancer was unbeatable, but that didn’t stop him from fighting. All the while, we continued to dream about growing our family… we continued to dream about you. As the cancer (along with the medicine he was taking to fight the cancer) threatened to destroy that dream, he did what any good superhero would do. He found a way to outsmart the villain. He called in super friends (in our case a fertility doctor and her team of scientists) so that when the time was right, you could come to be. A lot of parents worry about the day when their child will come to them and ask “where do babies come from?” My only concern about that day is that I won’t be able to accurately explain the science behind the miracle that is you!

Your Dad desperately wanted to meet you (and, maybe he did — you’ll have to tell me when you’re older). Together we imagined the person you would grow up to be. We talked about all of the fun adventures we’d have as a family. Whose eyes you’d have (they’re mine). Whose smile you’d have (it’s his). It breaks my heart to know that you will never have a photo of the two of you together. It hurts that you won’t get to squeeze him or wind your tiny fingers in to his beard and tug at it as you fall asleep in his arms. And I’m sorry that you’ll never get to hear him tell you any of the Dad jokes he’d been practicing for years. While there are so many things he won’t be here to give you, he wanted to make sure that you did have something special that was just from him: Your name.

I didn’t know if we were expecting a daughter or a son until the moment the doctor placed you in my arms. But your Dad had told me two years prior that our daughter would need a good strong name… Logan, just like The Wolverine. I told him that I would need to meet you first to know if the name fit. Not just any little girl can be named Logan, so I had to make sure that was really your name. It’s a superhero’s name after all. And I needed to make sure that you exhibited the same super strength as your Dad.

The world will forever talk about the year 2020 as a year of chaos and struggle. The history books will talk of a pandemic that swept the globe and a wave of civil unrest that swept through our nation. They’ll talk about how the economy collapsed as millions lost jobs. Baseball was shut down until July. Restaurants, theaters and public places were closed and boarded up, and families were forced to distance themselves from one another (also – murder hornets were briefly a thing). But, in the midst of all of this chaos… there was you.

You were born in the middle of a May snowstorm. I delivered you without a partner because your Dad had died, and the threat of a killer virus made it too dangerous to bring in a pinch hitter. I had a broken leg, which contributed to the complexity of your arrival. You were six weeks early and weighed less than 5 pounds. The nurses described you as feisty. There was no denying your super strength from the moment you came screaming into this world. You are a mix of the best parts of both of us. You are strong. You are super. You are Logan.

I’m Ready to Love Again

I was 23 when I met the man who would become my husband. A few months after we started dating, a close friend of mine asked me if I thought he was “The One.” I had no concept, at the time, of who I wanted to be as an individual person let alone how to work another human being into that equation. I thought about it a bit and I said the only thing that made sense to my still developing, young adult brain…  “I don’t know if he’s ‘the one,’ but what I do know is that he is someone I want him to be in my life for a very long time.” Four years later I said “I do” when asked if I would love him for as long as we both shall live, idealistically converting “a very long time” into forever, and thereby declaring him “the one.” But just six years after that I watched him take his last breath, in that moment realizing that we wouldn’t get forever or even “a very long time” (although as a 23 year old I may have considered a decade to be just that), and if he was “the one” his departure meant I could be living without love by my side for an actual “very long time.”

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They say that to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all. And while I’ve come to believe that may be partially true, the full truth is that losing a love is so cripplingly painful that avoiding it all together often seems like it may have been the better choice to begin with. While you are grateful for the time spent in love and the memories you made, the reality is that each of those memories has become colored by the loss you eventually experienced. An entire epoch of your life now defined by the tragic way it ended.

And these losses are not just limited to experiences with death. Anyone who has been through a difficult breakup knows that feeling of despair as you grapple with the major changes in your life that come with saying goodbye to a relationship. You were two, and now you’re just you, and it’s scary and confusing and just plain hard. Food tastes different. Songs you once loved now make you cry or scream or roll your eyes. And every plan you made for a future together has now been erased and you alone have to discern what comes next.

Likewise, losing love is not limited to just partner loss. My husband was in a sense “the one,” even if he was only the one for an unfairly short time in my life. But I have a mom who is also “the one” and only one of those I’ll get. My sister is the “the one” and only one of those I’ve ever had, and although my dad actually has six sisters I’m sure he’d say they are each individually “the one” in their own unique way. My brother, my father, each of my grandparents, family members and friends have been “the one” version of that individual that I will get in my life. Those that I have already lost have proven themselves irreplaceable, and as I inevitably say goodbye to others through the twists and turns that life brings my way I’ll have to grapple with the devastation that comes from saying goodbye to the love I have shared with each.

The impact of losing my husband instantly made me want to shut out the possibility of any new love from my life. His manner of death made the grief exceptionally hard as for more than a year we were practically joined at the hip as the cancer gradually took away his eyes, his legs, and his ability to form complete sentences. Everywhere we went we walked in lockstep with my left arm around his waist and our right hands clasped together. I could guide him away from something that was not within his field of vision using only gentle touches, a perfectly understood code that we developed seemingly overnight without any conversation or coordination. And without fail I could somehow read his mind and complete his sentences when the words weren’t there for him. The cruelty of the disease required us to become more than just partners. He needed me and I needed him as this supporting spouse role gave me a sense of purpose like I’d never felt before.

I have never experienced any greater love than to be trusted to care for someone in their most vulnerable moments, and yet the agony of getting to that point is something I’d never wish to experience again. How could I possibly let myself get close to someone else knowing that it could lead to this same type of pain? But gradually over the last year the incredible weight of this loss has become bearable. It’s still there. It hasn’t gone away or even lessened. But there are little rays of sunshine poking through the clouds hanging over the decade of life we lived together. I smile when I think about him and my still frequent tears are now, more often than not, ones of joy rather than despair. And in spite of the potential for pain, I’m confident that I’m ready to love again.

Now you may think that what comes next is an announcement that I met someone, and that I’m crazy head over heels in love with them, and that I think they may just be “the one.” And, that’s partially true. I have fallen in love with someone, but I haven’t actually met them yet. If all goes well, I will be meeting them on or around June 10th.

image0This isn’t how Travis and I imagined welcoming our first child into the world, but nothing about my life for the last 3 or 4 years is in any way how I imagined it would be. We started a pre-chemo family planning process not long after his initial diagnosis in hopes that he would somehow beat a seemingly unbeatable cancer, or at least be here long enough to meet his children. Watching and feeling this child grow over the past five months has been an incredible experience. I can’t wait to meet them and shower them with all of the love that I am so ready to give. I can’t wait to hold them in my arms and tell them that they are truly, and without a shadow of a doubt, The One.

Read my next post for answers to many of the questions you may have after reading this post: https://staringintothesun.home.blog/2020/02/08/all-of-the-questions-you-wanted-to-ask/