When I reached out through the curtain that separated families, I could hear everything on the other side—the fear, the guilt, the overwhelming confusion. “I won’t leave without her,” I heard her cry to her husband, who had been there long before she arrived, uncertain if they had a son or daughter.
Those words echoed in my heart; they were the same ones I had whispered to myself. Every mother in that NICU has felt that helplessness. We all know the harsh reality: we must leave our little ones behind, retreating to rooms that feel foreign, whether it’s our own home or a borrowed couch. Staying in the NICU forever isn’t an option.
I turned to that couple, fresh parents thrilled to welcome their little miracle. I congratulated them and reassured them that their baby was perfect, even with the machine pushing air into her lungs because she just needed a little more time. I told them she was beautiful, despite the wires and monitors displaying numbers and colors that seemed foreign to them, yet familiar to me.
“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “She’s safe. You’ll hold her soon, even if it feels like an eternity.” I gazed into the mother’s tear-filled eyes and urged her to take care of herself, to eat and rest, reminding her once more to celebrate the arrival of their child.
The next day, I listened again as she tried to stifle her sobs behind that curtain. I kept my head down, adhering to the unspoken rule of not breaking the silence. We were all scared and unsure, trapped in a world that didn’t make sense to any of us. We listened to each other’s grief and mourned the days when we felt kicks and rolls, now forced to watch our babies through glass—our “wombs with a view,” as we would jokingly call it.
In that NICU, we share a unique bond. We pump milk, exchanging smiles when we manage even an ounce, grateful for a way to nurture our little ones who can’t be held just yet. We cherish those fleeting moments of snuggling before we have to return them to their glass enclosures, watching as our milk is delivered through a syringe into their tiny stomachs.
I reach out to these moms because we are united in our fears and exhaustion. We juggle the weight of our concerns and doubts alone, even with the support of loved ones outside. Questions plague us: Did I do something wrong? Should I have eaten more greens instead of indulging in Nutella? Was it the vitamin I skipped weeks ago? We crave answers that may never come, a search for understanding that often feels futile.
As NICU moms, we have a unique experience that others can’t fully grasp, no matter how well-intentioned they may be. We feel the weight of our babies living in a plexiglass womb while we question our worth. We share the scent of sanitizer, the sounds of machines, and an abundance of love. We celebrate the small victories, like when our little ones take a bottle, and we grieve the pain of well-meaning questions about when our babies will come home.
We need to connect, to form a village among ourselves within the NICU. Our babies have caregivers, but we must be caregivers for one another. For more insights on navigating this journey, check out this blog post on home insemination.
In summary, NICU moms share an unbreakable bond forged in shared fears and triumphs. We understand each other in ways that others simply cannot, and together we can navigate the challenges we face.