A NICU Mom's Experience: In Her Own Words

This week's article is written by my wife. I've written a lot about the NICU from my perspective as the dad. But her experience is different — physically, emotionally, and in ways I'm still learning to understand. These are her words. — Louie

Oddly enough, the first time I saw each of our daughters in the NICU, I was calm.

I think it was a strange kind of calm — where I just sat, looked at them, and disregarded everything around us. I had waited so long for this moment. I didn't want anything to ruin it.

I wanted nothing more than to leave my hospital room day in and day out to go see them. I couldn't just look over and see my child — the one I carried as far as I physically could — because she was taken to a different hospital. I had to ask permission to see my own child. And that is all I wanted to do.

When it finally happened, I was at peace. Even surrounded by equipment, beeping, and all the doctors and nurses — I was at peace looking at my daughter.

Why? Because I was thankful she was here. Despite all the hurdles we had faced and the ones still ahead, she was here. She was in my sight and I didn't want to ever look away.

I was in awe. Seeing both my heroes covered in medical devices — at 10 ounces and at 1 pound 4 ounces — is something I will forever cherish and be thankful for.

What I did not say out loud: I was scared. But I did not have to verbalize it. My husband knew. And I knew he was too.

All of it. Every hour, every minute, and every second.

But I think one of the differences I face as the mom is the physical aspect. For both daughters, I had a cesarean — which is major surgery. Trying to recover from that while having a child in the NICU and then starting pumping — your body is a wreck.

It is physically exhausting. There are just not enough hours in the day to physically do it all. And sometimes the expectations are just too great. The bar is too high.

So you just do what you can, when you can. You pump when you can. You rest when you can. You do kangaroo carewhenever possible. And you stop measuring yourself against a standard that was never designed for someone recovering from surgery while their baby is in a hospital across town.

What I want my partner to know — or to better understand — is the grief.

The grief of not being able to carry a child to term. Or in my case, to even a third trimester. Or past 27 weeks.

I balance the pure joy of having both our daughters here with a constant struggle over the parts I missed. The things other moms get that I didn't.

The traditional baby shower. People talking about your bump and saying you're glowing. Maternity photos.

That one is hard.

Between both of our daughters, I only have a handful of pictures of me actually pregnant. I didn't have a photo shoot. I don't have the "40 weeks in and 40 weeks out" photo comparison that fills everyone else's Instagram. I don't have any of that.

Nothing to remember but trauma.

And I carry that. Quietly. Alongside the gratitude and the love and the pride in what our daughters have fought through. The grief doesn't cancel the joy. But it lives right next to it. And some days it's louder than others.

A couple of things come to mind.

The first is the hospital therapy dog, Dusty. Seeing her weekly and just being able to pet her brings me such joy. Even if it's just for a minute, she makes me feel normal. She makes me forget about the beeps. She makes me forget about being in a hospital and all the negative parts that come along with it.

The child life team helped coordinate those visits, and it's become one of the things I look forward to most. One minute with Dusty resets something inside me that an entire night of sleep can't.

The second is chocolate.

Yes. I wish I could say exercise or something healthy, but I cannot. The NICU life is exhausting, and sometimes — okay, most times — leaving the hospital day in and day out without your child, you just need a Snickers.

I find comfort in indulging in something sweet pulling out of the parking lot. It helps me not focus on the reality and weight of the situation. It's small. It's silly. And it works.

If you're reading this from a hospital bed, recovering from a delivery that didn't go the way you planned, wondering when you'll get to hold the baby you carried as far as your body would let you — I see you.

If you're grieving the pregnancy you didn't get while celebrating the baby you did — I understand.

If you're exhausted from pumping, recovering from surgery, and trying to be present at a bedside that isn't even in the same building where you delivered — you are doing more than enough.

And if you need a Snickers in the parking lot to make it through today — get the Snickers. No guilt. No explanation needed.

You carried them as far as you physically could. You fought for them before they were even born. And now you show up for them every single day in a place you never imagined you'd be.

You are not failing. You are the reason they're here.

— Louie's wife

Two-time NICU mom. Two c-sections. Two heroes. And a lot of chocolate.

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