Today was Little Miss Minion’s due date, back in 2015. We stopped using this date to adjust for her prematurity once she turned three, but I still have a wistful feeling whenever this date rolls around. What would she be like if she wasn’t born so early? Would she still have gotten sick in the NICU? Would a slightly more advanced immune system have fought off the infection and kept her from developing hydrocephalus? Would she have a little brother or sister by now, if my pregnancy with her hadn’t been so complicated?
May 14 is Little Miss Minion’s day. It is the day we celebrate her birth, however early and terrifying it may have been. August 3 is another happy day—her Gotcha Day—the day we brought her home.
August 6 is my personal day of remembrance and mourning. Of mourning the loss of what my pregnancy was “supposed” to be. Of scrapping Birth Plans A-Z in favor of Birth Plan-Nobody Dies. Of spending my first nights as a mother in a hospital room, dazed from the magnesium that was keeping me from having strokes and/or seizures, with my baby on a different floor of the hospital. I mourn the day I was discharged from the hospital without my baby, who was too small to come home yet. I mourn the nights I spent that summer when she was in the NICU, pumping every three hours and falling asleep with the machine on as I watched episodes of Good Eats to try to stay awake.
But I remember, too. I remember how tightly those unbelievably tiny fingers and hands gripped my thumb. She would wrap her entire arm around my thumb and just grip it when I would kangaroo her (kangarooing is skin-to-skin contact between parent and child). I remember how she was forever pulling her nasal cannula out of her nose and the two tubes would come down by her mouth and make her look like a tiny vampire. I remember how hard she fought the infection, sepsis, and meningitis. I remember standing by her crib all night after she came out of surgery for her first shunt placement, determined that if she woke up from the anesthesia that night, she wouldn’t feel alone. I remember the feeling of elation as we brought her home. I remember being so proud of how hard she worked in physical therapy and speech therapy.
And I remember how, when I put her to bed, she grabs me for a huge hug and says “I love you, Mama.”