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When the days line up

We have a whiteboard calendar above the desk in our kitchen.  I was super late getting around to updating it to August, so it was just two days ago I finally managed it. As we’re already well into August, I started with that day, and went into September. And then I wrote down  Big Man’s birthday, and it hit me…..the days line up this year. His birthday is on the same day of the week as his birth day.

I mentally count down the events leading up to his birth every year. That’s nothing new. The day I started bleeding and was admitted into the hospital, the day I found out I wasn’t going home until I reached 32 weeks or he was born (whichever came first), the day they discovered I’d lost 8 pounds in six days and the feeding frenzy began, the days I got my first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth steroid shots to help his lungs develop early, the day I had the fetal fibronectin test and no one would tell me the results, and then the night I started running a very high fever courtesy of the severe staph infection which would result in his birth the next day at exactly 26 weeks gestation. I feel those days coming every year. I’m not as emotional as I used to be, but it still hits me. He’s come so very far…he’s perfectly healthy and “normal” in every way, but that doesn’t take away the toll his premature birth took.

There’s just something about the years the days line up exactly. It makes it that much more of a journey to navigate because it’s all the same as it was seventeen years ago. I started bleeding and was admitted on a Wednesday. I was told on Saturday I wasn’t going home. I was weighed on Monday and they found out I’d lost too much weight. It was on consecutive Thursdays and Fridays I received the steroid shots. It was a Friday when I had the fetal fibronectin test. I was a Friday when the fever started. It was a Saturday afternoon when he was born. I’ll relive that exact journey this year. It’s like a punch in the gut.

Don’t get me wrong – I feel incredibly blessed we came out the other side with the miraculous outcome we’ve had. He’s my amazing boy – my first born, nearly seventeen years old. But none of who he is or what he does nor how he is takes away the guilt, fear, pain, and sense of loss from his premature birth. NONE of it. I will always relive those days in my heart and mind, each and every year for the rest of my life.  And when the days line up with the year he was born, it makes it that much more difficult.

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