What Goes Up Must Come Down
I hit a wall today.
I thought I was doing just fine, strolling along, singing a song, and joyfully accepting the situation we were in. And I was. I am. I mean, I think it's been a whole week since I've cried.
But for some reason today was different. I was busy all morning with Child #1. I did hours and hours of laundry, dishes, sandwich-making, cleaning... you know, the usual "mom" stuff. Stuff I usually enjoy. But something was missing. And I knew what it was: Mason. As I was home doing my day-to-day activities, he wasn't there next to me. He wasn't snuggled in a sling on my chest. He wasn't laying next to my pile of laundry. He wasn't sleeping in a crib near my side of the bed. He just wasn't there.
I felt overwhelmed all morning. I had things to do. I had Danny to spend time with. I had a messy house to attend to. And I had a baby in the hospital that needed his mommy. I felt like I was racing with time to get all the things I needed done as soon as possible so I could get to the hospital.
After dropping Danny off with Grammie (shout-out to my mom who has been the biggest blessing and angel ever in our lives for taking care of Danny for months now!), I headed to the hospital by myself. (I rock out to church hymns in the car, now, by the way. I feel like it is the only thing that calms my heart and mind lately.) I got to the hospital and loaded up my arms with my pumping kit, cooler of breast milk, purse, extra bottles, and jacket. It is always a production when we head into the NICU.
I got there just in time to try breastfeeding -- I had a lactation consultant work with Mason and me for the first time yesterday, and he did so well that she told me to just go for it whenever I was there! Luckily I arrived at the beginning of his 2pm feeding and was able to try nursing for 10 minutes before supplementing with the bottle. He did just fine. But afterwards, he wouldn't take anything from the bottle. I mean, he was not feeling it at all. He just snoozed and snoozed. So, naturally I was panicking thinking that he didn't get enough to eat. After a few minutes he woke up and I asked the nurse if I could try the bottle again. I kind of forced the bottle on him, and after a couple minutes of him struggling to suck it down, the alarms went off. He stopped breathing.
After his heart rate came back up and he started breathing again, I was devastated. I kept whispering to him "I'm sorry, Mason. I'm sorry, baby boy. Mommy's so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." I know it wasn't really my fault but I felt like I had hurt him in some way. I mean, I was holding him. I was forcing the bottle into his mouth. I practically made him drown in milk. At least that's how it seemed.
He was totally fine. However, every time his alarm goes off, we know he won't be home for at least three more days. The doctor won't discharge him until he goes three days without any breathing "spells". Basically, he has at least one "brady" (the nickname for when the babies hold their breath and drop their heart rate) every day. While I was holding him this afternoon, his "brady"alarm sounded twice more, making me feel, again, like the culprit. Although his nurses keep telling me not to worry, and that premature babies will just wake up one day, be fine, and be home 3 days later, I am having a hard time stomaching these endless days of back-and-forth between the hospital and home.
When I allow myself to stop and think about how things are, I go psycho. I can't believe I won't bring Mason home until he is a month old. Does he know that I'm gone? Does he remember my voice? Can he tell when I'm rocking him in his sleep? Does he know how much I love him? Does he know that I would do anything to bring him home?
When Mason does come home, he will most-likely spend months on a heart monitor. It will go with us everywhere. In the car, in bed, to the store. Everywhere. It is equipped with an insanely loud and disturbing alarm that will sound whenever he drops his heart rate (aka stops breathing), so we can watch him and help him breathe. The thought of the heart monitor, alone, is overwhelming sometimes.
Anyway, pity party's over. I cried for the first time, like I said, in a week. Sometimes you just need to get it out. Tomorrow is another day, and hopefully it will be a better one.
And, because this is my blog, I'm posting a pathetic post-cry pic of myself.
I thought I was doing just fine, strolling along, singing a song, and joyfully accepting the situation we were in. And I was. I am. I mean, I think it's been a whole week since I've cried.
But for some reason today was different. I was busy all morning with Child #1. I did hours and hours of laundry, dishes, sandwich-making, cleaning... you know, the usual "mom" stuff. Stuff I usually enjoy. But something was missing. And I knew what it was: Mason. As I was home doing my day-to-day activities, he wasn't there next to me. He wasn't snuggled in a sling on my chest. He wasn't laying next to my pile of laundry. He wasn't sleeping in a crib near my side of the bed. He just wasn't there.
I felt overwhelmed all morning. I had things to do. I had Danny to spend time with. I had a messy house to attend to. And I had a baby in the hospital that needed his mommy. I felt like I was racing with time to get all the things I needed done as soon as possible so I could get to the hospital.
After dropping Danny off with Grammie (shout-out to my mom who has been the biggest blessing and angel ever in our lives for taking care of Danny for months now!), I headed to the hospital by myself. (I rock out to church hymns in the car, now, by the way. I feel like it is the only thing that calms my heart and mind lately.) I got to the hospital and loaded up my arms with my pumping kit, cooler of breast milk, purse, extra bottles, and jacket. It is always a production when we head into the NICU.
I got there just in time to try breastfeeding -- I had a lactation consultant work with Mason and me for the first time yesterday, and he did so well that she told me to just go for it whenever I was there! Luckily I arrived at the beginning of his 2pm feeding and was able to try nursing for 10 minutes before supplementing with the bottle. He did just fine. But afterwards, he wouldn't take anything from the bottle. I mean, he was not feeling it at all. He just snoozed and snoozed. So, naturally I was panicking thinking that he didn't get enough to eat. After a few minutes he woke up and I asked the nurse if I could try the bottle again. I kind of forced the bottle on him, and after a couple minutes of him struggling to suck it down, the alarms went off. He stopped breathing.
After his heart rate came back up and he started breathing again, I was devastated. I kept whispering to him "I'm sorry, Mason. I'm sorry, baby boy. Mommy's so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." I know it wasn't really my fault but I felt like I had hurt him in some way. I mean, I was holding him. I was forcing the bottle into his mouth. I practically made him drown in milk. At least that's how it seemed.
He was totally fine. However, every time his alarm goes off, we know he won't be home for at least three more days. The doctor won't discharge him until he goes three days without any breathing "spells". Basically, he has at least one "brady" (the nickname for when the babies hold their breath and drop their heart rate) every day. While I was holding him this afternoon, his "brady"alarm sounded twice more, making me feel, again, like the culprit. Although his nurses keep telling me not to worry, and that premature babies will just wake up one day, be fine, and be home 3 days later, I am having a hard time stomaching these endless days of back-and-forth between the hospital and home.
When I allow myself to stop and think about how things are, I go psycho. I can't believe I won't bring Mason home until he is a month old. Does he know that I'm gone? Does he remember my voice? Can he tell when I'm rocking him in his sleep? Does he know how much I love him? Does he know that I would do anything to bring him home?
When Mason does come home, he will most-likely spend months on a heart monitor. It will go with us everywhere. In the car, in bed, to the store. Everywhere. It is equipped with an insanely loud and disturbing alarm that will sound whenever he drops his heart rate (aka stops breathing), so we can watch him and help him breathe. The thought of the heart monitor, alone, is overwhelming sometimes.
Anyway, pity party's over. I cried for the first time, like I said, in a week. Sometimes you just need to get it out. Tomorrow is another day, and hopefully it will be a better one.
And, because this is my blog, I'm posting a pathetic post-cry pic of myself.
And a few not-so-depressing pictures, as well.
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