Love, Hannah

“Dear NICU Mama, Life after NICU may feel overwhelming to navigate, but know that you are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. When you find yourself overwhelmed, know that I am so proud of you and where you’ve come.

This new life can bring a flood of emotions, and I see you when you fear walking into each doctor's appointment. 

I see you when you fear your baby screaming after shots. 

I see you when you fear a single sniffle or cough. 

I see you when you fear for your baby’s pain and wish you could take it away. 

I see you when you fear the sound of medical machines. 

I see you when you feel overwhelmed with the follow-up appointments.  

I see you when you feel alone leaving your baby at daycare.  

I see you when you feel like you’ve lost control. 

I see you and know that you carry fear and constant anxiety with you even after leaving the NICU from all the trauma you and your baby endured. 

When you find yourself overwhelmed with a flood of emotions that take you back to that NICU room, know that you can do this. When you question yourself, give yourself grace. Know you are brave and resilient, and your courage shines. Know that it’s okay to feel grateful for your story and still grieve your experience. The NICU bends you in ways you never imagined, and I see you carrying that with you as you navigate life now. 

Your baby is a warrior, and you too, Mama, are a fighter. 

Love,
Hannah

More of Hannah + Her Baby’s NICU Journeys:

“December 17th, it all started at 32 weeks; admitted to the hospital, where they confirmed a rupture—admitted on bed rest for two weeks, only to have things progress quickly when we got to our room. We blinked, and ten minutes later, I was being prepped for an emergency c-section.

Fast forward five hours, and I was wheeled up to the NICU in a hospital recovery bed. My babies were hooked up to more machines than ever imaginable. Multiple IV lines, CPAP machines, feeding tubes, oxygen monitors, etc., etc., and not being able to hold or touch them was devastating. I was taken down to the mother/baby floor with no babies. I didn’t see them again for another 12+ hours.

Holding them—I can’t even describe how scared I was—yes, scared. Scared because it took multiple nurses to help lay my baby in my arms. Scared, I would pull a cord that was allowing them to breathe. Scared I was going to hurt my fragile baby, who weighed hardly anything and was small enough to lay in my two hands.

Things were challenging and overwhelming. Being discharged from the mother/baby unit meant I would be spending 15+ hours a day in the NICU BUT have to leave my babies at the hospital every night. One of the worst feelings as a parent. The days were full of learning and adjusting to this new NICU life.

A room has honestly never felt so empty and alone. I celebrated Christmas and New Year’s staring out a hospital window and maybe only holding my babies once that day because that’s all they could tolerate. Not at all how anyone pictures their first holidays with new babies. It’s supposed to be a happy time, and honestly, I couldn’t feel anything but heartbreak and sadness. I felt like I had to fight to stay strong and walk through those doors—for my kids.

About two weeks into our three-month journey, a pipe burst in the NICU, leading to a flood that would have us transferred to a new hospital. I remember running down the hall, pushing our babies in their beds to another part of the hospital.

The hospital transfer turned out to be a blessing. This is where we met and established some of the best relationships with a few nurses who cared and loved our kids as much as we did. I can’t even begin to explain the impact those nurses made on our stay and our lives.

While we were at the new hospital, we were made aware of a situation that happened downtown during our stay at the NICU we were initially admitted. Simply put, a stranger was let into the NICU close to midnight and bottle-fed a baby (with no relation). I will spare the details of words and emotions I let out about that situation…

As the weeks went on, one of our babies became very ill. Multiple scans, heart echos, chest X-rays, blood cultures, urine cultures, brain ultrasounds, viral panels, swallow studies, etc. It was a terrifying time, and I finally learned how to advocate for my child and how extremely important it was. He was put back on oxygen and could no longer attempt oral feedings. No answers, two blood transfusions later, and multiple weeks of rest, he started SLOWLY improving. No worse feeling than knowing there is nothing you can do to help your child.

All the while, our little girl was growing and thriving on the bottle feedings. She was released from the hospital. She was able to stay in our hospital room for one week until we had to leave for her first appointment. Thanks to Covid and protocols, she could not return once she left. 

Welcome to the weeks of guilt as we had to split our time between the home, hospital, and work for my husband.

We got the team of specialists on board for our son and began looking for answers. Ultimately we still ended with no answers. 

This is where things got dark and hard for me as a mother. Where do we go now?! Now multiple weeks past my original due date and almost three months into our NICU stay, it was brought up that we need to consider the option of a feeding tube.

Once we decided to proceed—an impossible and LONG decision process, I sat for days with guilt, not knowing if I was making the right choice. “Would he just need a few more weeks, and he would know how to take full bottles orally?” I lost so much sleep thinking about our decision as we waited for surgery day. I mean, I wasn’t sleeping to begin with because I had another child at home to care for.

Surgery was scheduled, and finally, the day came. That day was something I never want to experience again: surgeons, nurses, and doctors in and out all morning. By 8:00 am, my baby was given a shot to temporarily paralyze him so they could put him to sleep. He was placed on a ventilator to minimize his trauma. 

Walking in and seeing a machine breathing for your baby is the most challenging, heartbreaking, and traumatizing thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. An image I still see when I close my eyes at night. Something I was not prepared for. On a brighter note, the surgery went well, and a few days later, we were bringing him home!

We are learning to accept and process “our journey”. Some days it’s hard to turn the page, BUT we know this is just OUR STORY, and we are so blessed.”