Thirty-one years ago, my journey as a mother began in a way I could never have anticipated. My twins, born prematurely at 27 weeks, were the most delicate and miraculous gifts life could offer. It all started with a high-risk pregnancy. At just five weeks pregnant, I received the daunting news that I had a tear in my amniotic sac. This tear caused an infection in my amniotic fluid, and my doctor instructed me to lie down with my feet above my heart, only rising minimally to use the restroom.
The boys arrived via emergency C-section on August 11, 1993, three months before their due date of November 8. They weighed in at a mere 2 pounds 2 ounces and 2 pounds 4 ounces, their tiny bodies no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. Their skin was translucent, they had no body fat, and they were too young to know how to suck, swallow, and breathe simultaneously. Gavage feeding through a tube down their throats was necessary until they could take a breast or bottle.
The NICU became our home for two months and two days. Each day in the NICU was filled with a mixture of fear and hope. We were warned that they might not survive the first 24 hours, but they did. The boys were fighters, defying the odds with every breath. The NICU, a place filled with the sounds of beeping monitors and the smells of medicine and sanitization products, was a world where the reality of human mortality was ever-present. It was a place where each tiny life hung by a thread, and the tireless dedication of the nurses was a beacon of hope for all of us parents.
For two months and two days, I spent approximately 17 hours a day in the NICU, missing only one day due to illness. That day apart from them was heart-wrenching. The boys needed me, and I needed them. The thought of not being there for them was unbearable.
Seeing my boys in the NICU, surrounded by other tiny fighters, was both the saddest and most inspiring experience of my life. Some babies had no visitors, some were drug-exposed and enduring withdrawal, and others, like mine, were born too early. The NICU was a place of miracles, where each breath taken by these fragile beings was a testament to their will to live.
As the boys turn 31 this month, I reflect on the journey we’ve been through. From those early days of uncertainty and fear to the love and happiness they have brought into our lives every single day since, they are my miracles. Their story is one of resilience and the incredible power of the human spirit.
This is my story. You may have all of it, some of it, or none of it.