Neither my master's in public health nor my background working in a women's health clinic prepared me for becoming the parent of a premature baby when I unexpectedly went into labor with my first biological child.
The words "congratulations" upon the news of my son's arrival echoed hollow in my mind as I lay alone in the room of the mom and baby unit while my son was receiving life sustaining care down the hall. It just failed to capture the full range and depth of what I was feeling.
Those early days in the NICU were disorienting as I navigated a new identity, processed everything that had brought me to that moment, and adapted a schedule to the rhythms of the NICU. There were moments I felt strong, and others where the grief and overwhelm oozed out through my pores. One of those moments found me sobbing uncontrollably in the Target parking garage. The NICU team had informed us our baby was finally ready to wear clothes, suggesting snap closures, not zippers, to accommodate wires, so off we went to purchase the first tiny clothes that would touch his body. The well-meaning cashier asked if I needed a gift receipt, a question that is likely force of habit for any customer buying baby clothes. But what I heard in my head was "Mothers have babies. You don't have a baby. So you couldn't possibly be a mother. This baby outfit must be for someone else." In the dark underground parking garage, I coaxed myself through the tears to believe that even though I'm not the one holding him, feeding him, keeping him alive in this moment,... I AM a mother. From the driver's seat my husband looked on with compassionate concern despite his inability to really understand.
That loneliness was eased only through connecting with other members of what I call the "sorority no one ever wants to join."
Beyond the NICU, our challenges continued as I did the balancing act of learning by fire to be a medical advocate, a home health aid, a system of care navigator and also trying to bond with my baby and just learn to be his mama.
We worked through blood tests, imaging studies, feeding tubes, therapies... Between the pumping and the scale, I often felt like my very worth was measured in ounces. The diagnosis "Failure to Thrive" forced me to surrender to the painful notion that even my best wasn't good enough. I had written academic papers on the "benefits of breastfeeding," and here I had a child with oral aversion, losing weight, refusing to eat. If my child wasn't thriving, who was the one failing?
As a working parent, pumping around the clock, coordinating care, endless appointments, therapies and interventions,... it wasn't just a lot. It was too much. I was white knuckling my way through it because frankly, I had no other choice.
What fueled my healing was allowing the grief, loss, and pain to move through me. To make what was stuck, unstuck. And to channel it into something constructive. I wrote and shared my story. I found organizations that support preemie parents and volunteered. I joined national committees and local advisory boards. And I leveraged the tools in my professional toolbox to facilitate systems change work to better support pregnant and birthing people. That work gave my experience a purpose that I could own and control. That work is my Labor of Love.
When I look back on my experience, I feel fortunate. I had a lot of things working in my favor and in terms of medical outcomes and quality of care there is more to be grateful for then to lament. It was hard as shit. But we got through it.
My survival is built on love, humor, and hard work. And so is my practice.
Now, years later, friends who have experienced a premature birth themselves will reach out to me. Having shared my story visibly, the people in my circles know of at least one person they can connect with to support them through their journey. I want everyone who needs it to have that support.
My son is thriving. He is joined by his younger brother who was born at full term, and they play and fight like puppies.
