Your Day is Coming, Mama.

Your Day is Coming, Mama.

"It was a cold, December morning when my water broke. We had traveled three hours northwest the night before, visiting my husband’s family for Christmas. I had just been at my doctor that morning, and everything seemed fine. No red flags were detected, and no travel restrictions were given—I had no reason to suspect that I would be in premature labor mere hours after arriving.

And yet, there I was—hovering over the guest bed, my sweatpants soaked in amniotic fluid. Trying to stay calm and elicit the futile logic that remained, I told myself that the rush of liquid was urine. Certainly I had just peed myself. I had heard stories of this happening, of women who went to the hospital, convinced their water broke, only to be sent back home in urine-soaked clothes. That had to be what happened; it was the only explanation that made sense.

But as I sped to the bathroom and the leaking continued, I knew I was wrong. I could not control it; it was an endless stream. This had to be amniotic fluid; I had to be going into early labor.

I walked back into the bedroom and felt an eerie calm wash over me. There wasn’t time to process or feel. Decisions had to be made; actions had to be taken. Panicking or crying was not going to do me any good. I had to remain clear-headed, even keel.

“Babe, my water broke,” I remember telling my husband, turning on the light and standing over the bed at 1:30 AM.

“No, it didn’t. You probably peed your pants,” he insisted, still half-asleep.

“It’s not pee,” I replied, as another gush of fluid came. “My water broke, and we need to go to the hospital.”

Sensing that I wasn’t just going to climb back into bed, he opened his eyes to assess the situation. I could see the panic fill his face, but his tone was calm. His mom is a nurse, and she was sleeping downstairs. Wanting to consult her before making any decisions, he went to find her.

They returned and found me in the bathroom. More fluid was coming, and I could not control it. His mom took one look at me and instantly knew. My amniotic fluid would be gone within hours–I was having a baby at 34-weeks pregnant.

We got to the hospital and things advanced pretty quickly from there in terms of admission. The fluid was determined to be amniotic. Ultrasound confirmed the baby was head-down. I was five centimeters dilated.

Eighteen hours of labor, and four hours of pushing later, Eli Robert entered the world at 8:03 PM on December 19, 2020. He was 5lbs 11oz of handsome, and he was perfect. We took one quick family picture, and that was it—a swarm of NICU nurses surrounded him and he was whisked away to the NICU.
Hours later, physically exhausted and emotionally drained, we visited the NICU for the very first time. The whole process felt so surreal. After carrying my baby boy for seven months, taking him with me everywhere I went, feeling his every move—I was scrubbing into a secure unit, tiptoeing around strangers to see my baby.

I distinctly remember the first time I saw him, delicately placed under a blanket of tubing and wires. He looked so fragile–like he could break at any given moment. I was afraid to touch him, for fear I would set off one of his dozen alarms the second my finger met his.

Then his nurse, Valerie, entered the room. Exuding an enviable level of calm and compassion, she assured me that everything would be okay. Guiding me with her soft, but empowering voice, I touched my son’s hand for the first time.

“Hi Eli, it’s your mommy. I love you, and I miss you.”

Tears welled inside me, but I held them back. I could feel the weight of the journey ahead, and I just wanted to embrace that moment—without tears, or sadness, or regret. I just wanted to stand alongside my baby, and reassure us both that everything would be okay.

And it was okay. In the end, everything was okay.

It took us seven weeks to discharge from the NICU. We spent 49 days taking two steps forward and one step back. Nearly two months of our lives were dedicated to ventilators and NG tubes and Panda Warmers.

We knew far too much about bilirubin lights and heart monitors. We could clearly identify the difference between an oxygen alarm and a temperature alarm. Neither me or my husband have a medical background, but by the end of our stay, I am sure we could have earned an honorary degree.

It was overwhelming, yes. It was exhausting, yes. It was hard, yes.

But we were okay.

We made it out of the NICU with a healthy baby. Every setback, every regression, every heartbreaking day was worth it. Every day, every second in the NICU was worth it for that moment—the moment we brought our baby home.

He came home on oxygen, and his medical history was a mile-long, but he was okay—he was home.

Your moment is coming, mama. Those sweet discharge orders are headed your way. Soon you will be celebrating your homecoming, and these moments will be worth it.

These days, these seconds spent in the NICU will not be in vain. They are laying the foundation, building the structure for the best day of your life—for the day you snuggle that sweet baby, walk through the secure doors, and go home."
-NICU Mom, Megan