Dear Lucia,
I'm overwhelmed lately with thoughts of "last year this time". Last year, we had already picked out your birthday of 9/15/10. I was sad about the planning aspect and wanted a surprise. Well, I got one. Last year, on this date, we had an ultrasound, and found out you were still breech. You were looking so cute and chubby, big cheeks, we watched you breathe in and out. You didn't have much room to move in there. You were just relaxing, waiting to be born. They weren't going to take you out earlier just because of size. You weren't finished growing and we wanted you to be healthy.
I remember everything, watching new Mad Men episodes with feet up, trying to enjoy the last few weeks of sleep. Isn't that what everyone tells a soon to be mom? Sleep now. Enjoy your quiet! I was anxious, I knew I had 2 weeks to go and then I would be a mom. I was kind of panicking. What does this mean? How could I do this? How would I be as a mom? Could I do it? I wanted to get good quality sleep, felt pressured to do so, but I wasn't. You were pushing up in my ribs and it was hard to get enough air. I woke up many times throughout the night as rolling over in bed had become a big project that involved moving dogs and rearranging pillows. I had no idea how much weight I'd gained but knew it was a lot. I waddled. I had to stop and catch my breath. I had a running countdown in my head, and I planned my hospital bag packing accordingly. So when I started feeling crampy on Sun. 9/12, I thought it was nothing, you were not coming yet. You were scheduled for 9/15. I started to enjoy the knowledge of when you would arrive, the preparation it allowed for. So when I woke up on 9/13 and felt less movement, I thought it was just because you were 9lbs, and you couldn't move as easily in my belly. I never thought you were under any distress. It wasn't until a certain worry set in, I couldn't remember when you'd last moved. Up until then I was just worried about the csection. How would that go? Would I be able to room in and breastfeed? Would the catheter be icky? I contemplated changes to my ever evolving birth plan. I told Daddy to go and be with you as soon as he could. I didnt' realize and could not prepare for them taking you to resuscitate you. I didn't know you'd require blood transfusions. I didn't know you wouldn't be breathing. You are so amazing and such a big girl now, I barely can picture you as that little baby. I couldn't see you. I saw you briefly when they brought you in all wrapped up but they were afraid of you crashing and they swooped you back. No one told me. In hindsight I'm glad. I would have started freaking out sooner. I could rest while they sewed me up, remembering your blond eyelashes, big blue eyes. I wouldn't see you again until you were on the stretcher ready for helicopter transport to Philadelphia. As we approach the anniversary of this bittersweet day that forever changed my life, I am so grateful. I look at a year's worth of photos, of memories, and realize that I almost didn't get to have these times. I came so close to not taking you home, to losing you before we'd even had the chance to bond.
Flash forward to this year. I am so grateful. Every moment I get to share with you, I savor. These cool late summer evenings, crickets chirping, remind me of being huge in the belly, grateful for cool air and windows open. You hug me, you snuggle against me while I give you your bottle. We could never breastfeed, but I've pumped for almost a year now. It has been a bumpy road, lots of fears, tests, worries. But you continue to amaze everyone. Every single doctor who has reviewed your thick charts is amazed, doesn't anticipate you to be the feisty, strong, alert, intelligent, bubbly little girl that you are. You are so full of life, so happy. We are planning your birthday party, and what a celebration it will be. A year of life for my Lucia Hope. This is just the beginning. We can relax a bit now, we can take deep breaths. You are here. We didn't lose you. These things are starting to actually sink in. It's hard, I'll be honest, I know how well you are doing, but I am afraid sometimes. I want you to have every opportunity in the world, I want you to have less obstacles and challenges. I am your mom, and it is how I feel, at night after I put you down to sleep and kiss your head. I kiss your head and every single night, I stroke it and I think how amazing that little brain it contains is, what a strong baby you are. What a hit that brain took, and yet here you are... I love you, Lucia. I know there is nothing you can't do. Every day it gets easier to focus on the present and dream for the future.
Love, Mama
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
August 24, 2011
Dear Lucia,
We are planning your first birthday party. I am reminded how bittersweet of a moment this is. I remember last summer, and I remember what it felt like when you moved and kicked, when you headbutted my ribs. I am remembering swollen feet and aching back. I remember never having to be separated from you. Today I am at work, and you are at home, and you have a fever. I wish I could go hold you and comfort you. Lately, when I hold you, I sense how much you miss me and need me to hold you. You hug me. Your face lights up when I come home. I miss you during the day, and I think of you often. Working has not gotten easier, but I do it. I am remembering last year, today, we had an ultrasound. I was 36 weeks pregnant. You were about 7 lbs! We found out that since you were breech we'd have to have a csection. We found out that at the next appointment, we'd schedule your birthday. I hated this, wanted a surprise, wanted a natural birth (with epidural on standby). Well, we got one. We know where the story goes from here.
An entire year has passed. It's been a roller coaster. I've tried to enjoy as much as I can and not live in fear, not worry, but I'd be lying if I said I never worried. I want nothing but the best for you. You are becoming such a little strong personality, such a fighter, such a big girl. You are starting to cruise, take steps. It's all up from here. I think that we will both breathe a sigh of relief when you are crawling and walking. It's like those are the big milestones. Every other little detail, we can deal with. You still have some feeding challenges, but so be it. You are here, and you are so alive. That's what counts. You are eating more and more finger foods, preferring to feed yourself. You are Miss Independent. You continue to be so happy, laughing, talking, singing. You have 1000 different expressions, and each one is full of your beautiful sense of humor, your energy, your light. You are living up to your name's meaning. You are such a beacon of light in my world. No matter what happens in the day to day, you are this glowing light at the day's end. You are such a delight to come home to. Some nights I don't get as much time to spend with you as I'd like. Rather than let this depress me, I try to focus on every second I have and enjoy it. You have taught me to live in the moment. When something catches up with me, and I'm with you, you distract me. You bring me back to present.
Daddy and I have savored every minute and will continue to do so. We've not let the pain and anguish of your start in life take that away. That being said, it's hard to believe what we have overcome together. I look at a year's worth of pictures, and it's amazing, how far you have come. I know you won't remember any of it. We'll tell you one day. We'll take you to Philadelphia, where doctors fought 24/7 to save your life, to preserve your brain, keep you alive and safe. We'll show you where you were taken by helicopter, hooked up to life supports, where I lived every day for a month, by your side. I'm so grateful for this year. I don't know what I would have done, and I can't imagine life without you. I am so grateful for you, for my daughter. I love you so much. I cannot wait to celebrate your birthday, focus on the joy that entered my world on that day and honor the pain as well.
Love, Mama
We are planning your first birthday party. I am reminded how bittersweet of a moment this is. I remember last summer, and I remember what it felt like when you moved and kicked, when you headbutted my ribs. I am remembering swollen feet and aching back. I remember never having to be separated from you. Today I am at work, and you are at home, and you have a fever. I wish I could go hold you and comfort you. Lately, when I hold you, I sense how much you miss me and need me to hold you. You hug me. Your face lights up when I come home. I miss you during the day, and I think of you often. Working has not gotten easier, but I do it. I am remembering last year, today, we had an ultrasound. I was 36 weeks pregnant. You were about 7 lbs! We found out that since you were breech we'd have to have a csection. We found out that at the next appointment, we'd schedule your birthday. I hated this, wanted a surprise, wanted a natural birth (with epidural on standby). Well, we got one. We know where the story goes from here.
An entire year has passed. It's been a roller coaster. I've tried to enjoy as much as I can and not live in fear, not worry, but I'd be lying if I said I never worried. I want nothing but the best for you. You are becoming such a little strong personality, such a fighter, such a big girl. You are starting to cruise, take steps. It's all up from here. I think that we will both breathe a sigh of relief when you are crawling and walking. It's like those are the big milestones. Every other little detail, we can deal with. You still have some feeding challenges, but so be it. You are here, and you are so alive. That's what counts. You are eating more and more finger foods, preferring to feed yourself. You are Miss Independent. You continue to be so happy, laughing, talking, singing. You have 1000 different expressions, and each one is full of your beautiful sense of humor, your energy, your light. You are living up to your name's meaning. You are such a beacon of light in my world. No matter what happens in the day to day, you are this glowing light at the day's end. You are such a delight to come home to. Some nights I don't get as much time to spend with you as I'd like. Rather than let this depress me, I try to focus on every second I have and enjoy it. You have taught me to live in the moment. When something catches up with me, and I'm with you, you distract me. You bring me back to present.
Daddy and I have savored every minute and will continue to do so. We've not let the pain and anguish of your start in life take that away. That being said, it's hard to believe what we have overcome together. I look at a year's worth of pictures, and it's amazing, how far you have come. I know you won't remember any of it. We'll tell you one day. We'll take you to Philadelphia, where doctors fought 24/7 to save your life, to preserve your brain, keep you alive and safe. We'll show you where you were taken by helicopter, hooked up to life supports, where I lived every day for a month, by your side. I'm so grateful for this year. I don't know what I would have done, and I can't imagine life without you. I am so grateful for you, for my daughter. I love you so much. I cannot wait to celebrate your birthday, focus on the joy that entered my world on that day and honor the pain as well.
Love, Mama
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