Twelve Years Ago...

It happens every year at this time in October. The feelings hit me at strange times, like when I'm writing or reading the date, or when I see Halloween decorations. I'm not sure why I'm still surprised when I go through this little blue period.

Twelve years ago this week, Sam was a newborn. We had been dismissed from the hospital after a normal c-section birth when he was showing signs that something was very wrong.

Sam was admitted to the NICU at Blank Children's Hospital where we spent 10 days trying to diagnosis his problem. He had Hirschsprungs Disease, which is a like a bowel obstruction because a section of his intestine formed without any nerve cells.

Instead of coaxing him to eat, like I had at home, we were forced to keep him NPO. Our days were spent holding him and rocking him as he cried himself into exhaustion from hunger. I remember wondering how a baby was supposed to bond with his mother when the very essence of mother-child bonding time involved feeding and meeting their most basic comfort needs. I remember wishing I could wake up from the nightmare of seeing my new baby poked regularly with needles, and taken from me for procedures that no infant should have to experience. The panic and worry about what his future held literally made me feel like I was choking at times. The days were a blur, with eternal waits for the next doctor visit, the next round of tests and results.

The only way I could keep track of time was with my regular trips to the "pump room". I remember how marking the tiny 2 ounce bottles of milk with the date kept me connected to reality in a small strange way. 

I refused to leave the hospital, so Perry and my mom took turns caring for the two older boys at home, who were missing me and wondering how they went from having a new baby brother to not even having their mommy around. I felt like my heart was being torn in two when I thought about them needing me at home, but the idea of leaving Sam alone was unbearable for me. So I stayed. I preferred not to even leave the unit because there I could focus on what needed to be done for him. Walking to the cafeteria and back was an emotional drain because looking at the words "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit" on the door and knowing I belonged in there felt like a punch in the gut to me. It was painful to rejoin the outside world and see signs of other people's normal routines. Hearing small talk and laughter sounded like a foreign language to my ears.

One night a supper tray arrived with a small halloween goodie bag on it. I read the enclosed note, which explained that a child on the pediatric cancer floor had made these treats for parents of the "sick babies". I bawled over that sweet gesture from a child who herself was seriously ill. I bawled because it was halloween and I didn't understand how everybody in the world could be thinking of ridiculous things like pumpkins and costumes when my baby was sick! I bawled because my older sons needed me to come home and be with them on Halloween and I didn't know if I could do it. 

On the morning of October 31st, my mother arrived to take over with Sam. She had persuaded me that she was more than capable of rocking and loving him while I spent this much needed time with Joey and Ben. I drove to the boys' school and stood with the other parents holding cameras and looking to see which Power Ranger was their son. The difference was, I was the only mother sobbing through the entire parade. I spent the rest of the day with my big boys, taking them trick or treating, and trying to pretend that I wasn't grief stricken, exhausted and hormonal.

Every year since then, Sam has grown bigger and healthier. That traumatic time in the hospital is long past us. By the time he was a year old, our visits to Blank were much less frequent. October became a time to celebrate Sam's birthday, and a time to prepare for the costumes and silly celebrations that Halloween brings. When Sam was little, the memories were raw and painful, sometimes even waking me up in the night. After several more years, the mix of halloween/hospital memories have mellowed.

This year Sam insisted that we needed more Halloween decorations in the house. He took it upon himself to (properly) decorate the front hall of our house with dangling spiders, bat banners on the windows and a smiling pumpkin on the table. I smile to myself at this big healthy boy and remember how far he has come. It's nice to dust off those old memories and allow myself to remember back, but even nicer to "put them back on the shelf" and take a little swing at the rubber bat that hangs over my head as I walk by.