Hannah is our unexpected blessing. We always wanted the kids to be close in age, but 16 months is a little too close in our ideal plan. But if I could go back and change anything, I don't think I would. I love our little banana even if she is a constant source of stress and worry.
Hannah was born just five weeks early after I had been on bed rest for preterm labor. (Just for the record, anyone who can stay sane on bed rest with a toddler running amok deserves serious kudos. It almost broke me and I only had to do it for two short weeks! Those ladies that do months of bed rest deserve at least something shiny and fabulous!) Hannah's lungs were not ready for the world and she struggled after giving us that welcomed first cry. But then the room got quiet and there was a fury of activity. The nurses assured me she was fine, but watching that tiny little baby struggle to breathe, we knew otherwise. The NICU doctor came down and told us that she had been placed on a CPAP machine just to give her a little help. We consoled each other saying, "It's okay, at least she isn't on the vent. It could be worse." But as we were getting ready to go up and see her, the NICU nurse came over and told us that she was working too hard and they had to intubate her. I will always remember the feeling that I felt when she told us. I have never felt so completely helpless and afraid as I did just then. Well, that was until we went and saw her. They didn't have her completely sedated yet. Seeing that tiny baby cry with tiny tears but no noise was the worst feeling in the whole world. I sobbed in the middle of the NICU. All I wanted to do was to scoop her up and run. Take her away from these people that made her scream with such passion. Pick her up and snuggle her and tell her it would be okay. But I couldn't. I couldn't even touch her yet. She wasn't stable enough for us to squeeze her tiny hand offering the only support we could. All I could do was to sit and watch these people try to save our little angel. Thankfully, the neonatology team was amazing. They stabilized her and got her comfortable. She settled into a nice, drug induced sleep. A radiating heat lamp, think french fries, kept her warm. She was turned every four hours to prevent sores. And after four days, I got to hold her. It was one of the best feelings in the whole world. Until she started crying. It was a wonderful sound that I stood and soaked in. Until the sound of her crying reminded me that something else was getting soaked too.
After recovering from my immediate shock and mother hen wariness, I learned to love this wonderful group of people. The nurses comforted my little girl and fiercely advocated for her when I wasn't there. Even when I was there, they fought for her when I didn't know I needed to. If someone wanted to run another test or try to wean her off the vent, they'd have to get Ali's or Donnette's okay first. And as kind and gentle as they were with us and Hannah, they'd pull out their boxing gloves with little hesitation to fight for our little girl. These ladies held our hands, dried our tears and will always have such a special place in our hearts.
After 10 days of intensive care, Hannah was ready to come home. We stayed up all night dusting, vacuuming and trying to get the house sterile and dust free. Enter the not so gentle slap of reality. We live on a farm. In the middle of a field. With three large dogs. And two cats. And one very busy toddler. Sterile was something that was going to have to learn to bend. And that is where we begin.
