August 31, 2011

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