I see you. I see your fears and confusion as you leave your little one in the hospital, needing extra care because they arrived too soon. I notice you diligently taking notes while the doctor walks you through the complexities of the machines surrounding your precious baby. I understand how difficult it is to absorb all that medical jargon, all the schedules and procedures, while your eyes keep drifting back to your child in the isolette, longing for the moment you can hold her in your arms.
I see you making that daily drive to the hospital, determined to be present for every moment of your baby’s journey. I feel the weight on your shoulders as you brace yourself for another long day of visiting, only to leave without your little one once again.
When the day finally comes for you to bring your baby home, it’s a mix of joy and anxiety. You’re filled with happiness, yet wonder if you can care for her as well as the doctors did. Am I enough? you silently ponder.
Fast forward a few months, and I see you celebrating those precious moments with your baby, but feeling overwhelmed by the constant need for attention. Appointments with doctors, specialists, and therapists start to dominate your life. You remind yourself to be grateful—your baby has fought so hard—but that doesn’t always quell the frustration. You find yourself asking, why did this happen to us? Why did my baby have to struggle so much?
I see you at a friend’s birthday party, celebrating a child who was due around the same time as yours. You smile genuinely, yet it’s not the same. While you’re happy for your friend, it stings to see the milestones your baby has yet to reach.
Late at night, I see you crying, consumed by guilt, worry, and anger. If only I had done things differently, you might think—if only I had insisted on further scans or avoided certain foods that you believe may have contributed to the prematurity. It’s easy to slip into self-blame, searching for ways to make sense of what feels like an injustice.
Social invitations become a challenge. You decline outings to playgrounds and lunches, fearing your little one might catch something. Doctors have warned you that the first winter is critical, advising you to limit exposure. So, you spend quiet days at home, knowing it will all be worth it when spring arrives.
I see you packing your diaper bag, which looks different from others. You’re prepared with hand sanitizer, extra oxygen tanks, and masks to fend off germs. You approach the grocery store like a soldier heading into battle, weighing risks and hoping to finish quickly while keeping your baby safe.
When someone asks about your baby’s age, I see you hesitate. You know the real answer will invite too many questions, and you’re simply tired of explaining. But you also want to honor your child’s journey. So you find a middle ground, sometimes sharing the truth and other times not, depending on the moment.
You often wonder if you’re the right mom for your baby. You might think someone else could handle the therapies and special considerations better than you. You reflect on your previous life—whether you were working and now need to stay home, or if you wish to stay home but have to work. It’s a reality you never envisioned.
I don’t have the answers you seek, and I wish I did. I want answers for myself too. But know this: I see you. You are not alone in this journey.
Sincerely,
A fellow Preemie Mom
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Summary:
This heartfelt letter addresses the struggles and emotions faced by mothers of premature babies, recognizing their fears, frustrations, and the journey they navigate daily. It emphasizes solidarity among preemie moms while offering resources for further support.