A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to be at the Australian Jewish Fertility Network (AJFN) major event in Sydney. Full disclosure, I was on the organising committee because the AJFN is an organisation close to my heart.
Not because I had any fertility struggles. I truly am so thankful for that every day.
But because I know what it means to have a miracle baby.
For thousands of years, the Jewish people have been persecuted. Many will say that our greatest revenge is bringing more life, light and love into the world. And they’d be right. But there’s something so special about those babies who fought so hard to be part of our nation.
I was fortunate to have four pregnancies, three of which progressed. None of the three were straightforward by any means, but the third was by far our most frightening.
At around the 20 week mark, our obstetrician started talking about a small baby.
No surprise. Our others, born at 2.77kg and 2.78kg respectively, weren’t tipping the scales either.
But then he started talking about a very, very little baby and what that could mean.
I’ll preface this by saying our obstetrician is quite literally an angel walking the earth. I credit him for saving our son’s life and I will forever be grateful for the decisions he made. Had he not made those decisions, there is a very large possibility that we would not be playing with our precious third child right now. In fact, following the birth, various tests showed that the results were usually an indication of a still-birth.
They’re the toughest of the toughest kids because they’ve had to fight so much to survive. But they’re absolutely the brightest light and another beautiful neshama to add to our incredibly special Jewish nation.
But I was definitely frightened when he spoke about the arising issues. So on top of working and continuing my communal work, I was forced into a strict check up regimen of multiple scans, appointments with various doctors and check ups every week.
There was talk about the NICU or the Special Care Nursery. Discussions about not being able to take our baby home right away. Preparing our older two for the fact that they wouldn’t be able to meet their baby brother for a little while. And preparing ourselves, as best we could, to deal with everything a preemie baby entails.
My family had traversed this road before. My oldest nephew, our family’s first miracle baby, was a preemie too. And when I was going through the rough days, all I had to do was look at my 11-year-old (at the time) mensch and I would know that things would be ok. But that doesn’t remove the anxiety, the what ifs. And as with anything, things hit differently when it’s your own.
It also hits differently when it’s your first child compared to your second, third or beyond.
Photo: supplied
Our neighbours in the Special Care Nursery used to ask us how we juggled it all, amazed at how we managed to be with Judah and still make sure our other children were ok. We would turn to them and say how grateful we were to have a distraction in our loud, messy, crazy home. Noise to come home to instead of the silence they had as they waited for their baby boy to join them.
As the weeks progressed, it was uncanny how much this pregnancy mirrored that of my nephew’s. The same weeks, the same weights, the same questions. It became a competition – would our baby stay longer than 34 weeks and 2 days? Would he be heavier than 1.51kg?
Judah did not win the gestational race. He entered the world at 33 weeks and 6 days. But he was a full 87g heavier than my nephew weighing in at 1.597kg.
I’m still not sure who won overall.
No one prepares you for what a premature baby really means. People shared lots of practical advice. But no one spoke to me about the silence in my hospital room. The baby crying next door as she tried to nurse, compared to the empty space next to my bed.
The bassinets walking the halls and me, being wheeled to the nursery down the hall because I was still too weak from surgery.
The aching heart waking up in the middle of the night, not being able to reach for him.
The horror of walking out of the hospital on day five, alone.
The exhaustion of travelling to and from the hospital multiple times a day for a cuddle while a tube feeds your child.
The whoop of delight when they finally crack the 2kg mark.
The excitement when they graduate from their humidicrib to an open bassinet, giving you a bit more autonomy. No more asking the nurses to open the door, move the wires and hand you the baby. Now you can simply lift your baby yourself, manoeuvring the wires as you go.
The joy in dressing them in normal clothes for the first time and the incredible feeling of hearing the nurses say “you do what you have to do to be mum today, we’ll stay out of your way”.
The gut wrenching moment you have to leave them yet again. Every day. The questions that wake you in the middle of the night – is he crying? Is he sleeping? Is he cold?
The guilt that overtakes that you can’t be there. And the guilt that overtakes that you can’t be 100 per cent present for your other children.
Four weeks into our Special Care Nursery journey, my four-year-old asked when the baby was coming home. He was frustrated. He knew Judah had to grow and that he needed a bit of help, but he felt lost, because we weren’t fully present in his life. We were juggling school holidays and work, big kids and babies, home life and hospital visits. And we couldn’t do it all.
There’s an intense guilt that you’re failing at everything. You failed your preemie baby because he wasn’t getting the nourishment he needed to grow. You’re failing the big kids because you can’t be with them as much as they need you. You’re failing.
And it’s the village that comes to the rescue. The wonderful friends who stepped in to help with the bigger boys and took them for play dates, meals and activities. The other friends who organised meals for us so we didn’t need to worry about cooking. Our families who held us up hour by hour.
I credit a lot of people for getting us through the journey that premature families walk. I credit the strangers and acquaintances – some of whom became close confidants – on Facebook who gave me the practical tips to navigate the nursery. Things like make sure you have button down tops for cuddles, because even if you’re not breastfeeding, your baby will need to feel your skin.
Having a water bottle with a straw so you’re not juggling drinking from a cup while manoeuvring wires and a teeny tiny newborn.
Showing pictures to the older boys of other preemie babies before he is born so they don’t get a shock when they see him in pictures for the first time, and FaceTiming them often so they feel included.
And the one I learned from my nephew – having two little bunnies to cuddle. One to stay in the bassinet with the baby and one to stay in the bed with you. Every couple of days you swap them so your baby always has your scent. Snuggling that bunny in my bed each night brought me more comfort than I can describe.
There’s an intense guilt that you’re failing at everything. You failed your preemie baby because he wasn’t getting the nourishment he needed to grow. You’re failing the big kids because you can’t be with them as much as they need you. You’re failing.
To those families navigating the preemie journey, know that you’re not alone. There are so many of us who have walked these footsteps.
And know that now our almost two-year-old very much rules the roost and very much holds his own against his big brothers and cousins.
They’re the toughest of the toughest kids because they’ve had to fight so much to survive.
But they’re absolutely the brightest light and another beautiful neshama to add to our incredibly special Jewish nation.
Jessica Abelsohn is the arts and lifestyle editor of The Australian Jewish News.
comments