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Prematurity Awareness Month: A Personal Reflection
November has arrived, and for me, every day is a reminder of the journey through prematurity. While many may view this month as a time to reflect, my experiences keep those memories fresh.
For countless parents, the challenges of prematurity may feel like a distant memory once their little ones come home from the NICU. However, the sounds—the beeping of machines, the distinct scent of Purell, and the gentle sway of a rocking chair—transport us back to those intense days. It was a club we never wished to join, yet we quickly became experts in the lingo—ROP, IVH, sats, and NEC. The first moments of kangaroo care were precious, offering us fleeting glimpses of connection with our tiny babies, devoid of barriers.
The nurses became our allies, our confidants. I remember calling them every few hours, unable to be by the Isolette. They patiently answered my questions about oxygen levels, blood gases, and weight changes, never showing annoyance. One particularly harrowing moment stands out when my son accidentally dislodged his ventilator tube, prompting a code. I was ushered out, fearing the worst, until a nurse brought me back in. I wept on her shoulder as she reassured me of the NICU mantra: one step forward, two steps back.
My son spent six long months in the NICU—180 days filled with wires, tubes, and ventilators. When he finally came home, the NICU’s presence lingered. The tracheostomy, oxygen tanks, and feeding tubes made our home feel like an extension of the hospital. The memories of Purell and monitor beeps became a part of our new normal.
Prematurity didn’t end with discharge; it continued into our lives with early intervention services until he was three. Nurses and therapists became regular visitors, helping him grow stronger. I often doubted if he would ever clap or walk—until he did, albeit a little later than expected. I never imagined he would breathe independently or speak without challenges, yet here we are today.
Twelve years filled with specialists and therapists have been an emotional rollercoaster. There are moments of despair when I wish for a different life for my son, one where he would have grown up alongside a twin brother. His absence serves as a constant reminder of the realities of prematurity.
So, while November is dedicated to raising awareness, I live with the impact of prematurity every day. My son, my miracle, carries the label of prematurity, but it does not define him. It shaped who he is today, and in turn, it shaped me into the mother I am.
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In summary, every day is a reminder of the trials and triumphs of prematurity, shaping our lives in ways we never imagined.