There’s a cloud hovering. I feel quite empty inside. Surprisingly, I’m having an okay day today even though she’s had to endure some Bradys – just like yesterday and tomorrow. I hate them: Bradys. She’s so small, so young. She brings me so much joy. All I see is beauty and light when I look at her; I don’t see her oxygen mask or her chin strap or her head and face gear. When I hold her, I just feel my heart melt; I don’t feel the IVs or the cords or the oxygen tube.
She is perfect, and I love her so much. She is the sweetest baby; she is adorable. I could stare at her for hours. She wiggles and twitches as she lays in her isolate. I want to cry when she opens her beautiful eyes. Does she see me? Rowan, can you see Mommy? She has stolen my heart.
Do you know what it’s like to watch your husband fall in love? It is the most precious thing. His hand is the size of her. He held her for an hour today. He has softened in the right ways. I look at them together; I see the love of my life holding my baby – her head resting on his chest as her tiny body is covered with his warmth and a blanket. I love it – every part of it.
I hurt for him. I know he hurts for me too. That night (or early morning hours), all we said to each other was “I’m so sorry. I love you so much.” We spoke those words back and forth, over and over. I can still see it unfold; I can still see my husband’s face. My poor baby; my Emmanuelle. Those moments were horrific. That day was horrible. My world is miserable. I couldn’t help her. I didn’t get to spend time with her. They took my babies from me and kept me in bed, loopy on medication and magnesium. The doctor asked for my husband; shortly after, he asked for me – against my protocol to stay in bed for 24 hours.
“Is this a bad sign?” I asked my nurse.
“I think it might be,” she responded.
They asked me to speak to Emmanuelle, to sit near her and let her know I was there. I didn’t know how powerful that was. It helped her a little bit and for a short time … but it wasn’t enough. My sweet angel was just too sick; she had had enough. The doctors, the NICU team – they fought so hard. They cried; they were visibly perplexed and desperate.
It was so unfair. Emmanuelle was too delicate yet perfect to endure those moments. She didn’t deserve it. My poor baby. She was just there; I had just had her with me. None of it made sense.
I miss her, that button nose. I love my Emmanuelle. I hope she is happy. I hope she is not sick anymore as she sits on Jesus’ lap. I know she is well, but I still hope it. She was so wanted and so intentionally created.
We thought we’d suffered. We thought our struggle for our babies was enough. Those two weeks undid everything, unraveled everything.
Now, my days pass quickly in the NICU. And when I go home, I miss her. I just miss her, my precious Rowan. I hear the noises of the NICU even when I’m not there. I see her vitals …
Heart rate above 100. Mommy isn’t happy with anything less than 110.
Oxygen between 88 and 100, but I want to see it above 95.
A blood pressure median of 28 is acceptable, but I need it to be above 29 for my own sanity.
I hate the word Brady. Hate it.
And this is my life for the next seven weeks. I hope it’s seven weeks, but I want her to be ready. Please pray for my Rowan. Please pray she will progress healthily.
Dear Heavenly Father, please protect my baby. Thank you for Rowan.