As November rolls in, it’s a whirlwind of celebrations for us—my eldest’s birthday lands right between Halloween and Thanksgiving, making for a vibrant yet chaotic month. However, this time of year carries a bittersweet weight. His birthday should ideally follow the holiday rush, but instead, it serves as a reminder of the tumultuous journey that began nearly six years ago.
The first two weeks of November in the hospital were a blur, as doctors tried unsuccessfully to halt my labor. Then came the 69 days spent in the NICU, where we faced a plethora of premature milestones—first time breathing on his own, first successful brain scan, and the first moment I could hold him amidst a web of wires and tubes.
My son entered the world at just 29 weeks, weighing a mere 2 pounds and 9 ounces. I vividly remember those early days when I mistakenly believed he had surpassed the 3-pound mark, clinging to that false hope until reality hit me hard. The emotional toll was immense, and I struggled even to produce breast milk, overwhelmed by the tears that seemed never-ending.
In that first year, I was consumed by doubt and fear. I questioned my actions and worried incessantly about how my premature labor might affect him. Watching him endure two surgeries and a bout of RSV was heart-wrenching. I remember the tears that flowed when he didn’t smile at me six weeks past his due date—over four months old at that point. I feared I was witnessing a sign of autism, but when he finally smiled a few days later, I felt a small wave of relief, though I remained hyper-vigilant for any signs of developmental issues.
When his first birthday arrived, I was an emotional wreck. I had anticipated this day as a triumphant conclusion to our struggles, yet it was filled with tears. Lying in bed, I was besieged by memories from the previous year, feeling isolated even among family. My husband took care of our son that morning while I remained cloaked in sadness, finally summoning the strength to join them, my face a swollen mess as I choked on the words “happy birthday.”
As the years passed, my son grew from a fragile infant to a lively toddler. A sense of pride filled me as I watched him thrive. Yet, alongside that pride, the guilt resurfaced. I felt a heavy burden for his early struggles, questioning whether I had failed him as a mother in ensuring his safety and health.
Reflecting on past miscarriages added to the complexity of my emotions. Society often frames these experiences in a way that places blame squarely on the mother. I endured the pain of lost pregnancies, faced the implications of an incompetent cervix, and wrestled with a myriad of feelings surrounding my journey to motherhood.
Here I am now, on the verge of celebrating my son’s sixth birthday. He is strong and healthy, thriving in kindergarten, and right at the 50th percentile for height. I seldom mention his preemie status, and when I do, I often find surprise on others’ faces. Yet, as November approaches, the flood of emotions inevitably rises, and I find myself teary-eyed, ready to celebrate the incredible child he has become while still acknowledging the struggles we faced.
In moments like these, I remind myself that many preemies face far greater challenges, and I am grateful for the progress we’ve made. Still, every year, I shed a few tears on his birthday, a blend of joy and sorrow woven into our family’s story.
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Summary
Six years after my son’s premature birth, I still grapple with feelings of guilt and fear. Though he is now a thriving six-year-old, the memories of his early struggles linger, reminding me of the complex emotions that come with motherhood. While I celebrate his milestones, I also acknowledge the journey we’ve endured together, navigating the challenges of prematurity and reflecting on the myriad of emotions that accompany it.