3 pounds, 16 inches long.

That’s how big Theodore was when he was born when he was delivered at just 28 weeks gestation in an effort to save both of our lives. By day two of life, when my medications were out of his system and his swelling had gone down, he was 2pounds 4 ounces,That’s the smallest our sweet boy was. He was the size of one of our daughters many, many dolls she had at home in her toy box.

Iremember when I first saw photos of him, I was expecting him to be this tiny little, almost alien looking thing. I expected him to look fragile and red. I expected him to have a hairy body, and no hair on his scalp. I didn’t even know if his eyes would be open. When my husband showed me Theo’s photos the first thing out of my mouth was, “He looks like a normal baby!” I didn’t realize that in photos, these tiny micro preemies often look larger than they really are.

Man, was I in for a surprise when I entered his room.

I was wheeled in to see Theodore about 6 hours or so after my c-section. My husband helped me scrub in and sanitize. “Make sure to get all the way to your elbows” he told me. “I know, I know. Im a NICU vet, remember”I snapped back at him. (The pain killers I had to take made me not so friendly)

So I followed the protocol for scrubbing in to see your baby, and was then wheeled back to Theodore’s room.

Room 8. Right on the main hall in the front of the unit. Prime Real Estate.

My husband wanted to wheel me over to the isolette, but being the stubborn woman I am, I was determined to walk to see my child. So I clung my freshly sliced abdomen, and I held on to it like if I didn’t I was going to loose an internal organ right there on the floor. I shuffled my way over to his bed, in awe of all the machines there were. There were so many. I couldn’t even tell you what they all were (well….NOW I can because we spent so long there). I made my way over to the foggy little plastic box that now was housing my precious little baby. I peeked in, and I’ll admit, I was taken back by what I saw.

Never mind all the tubes and wires, all the cords. All the loud beeps and buzzes. Or the tube that was down his throat.

What shook me to my core was him.

He. Was. So. Small.

Im talking like you could hold him in one hand he was so tiny. It took my breath away. He looked MUCH bigger in the pictures I saw back in my room!

It was right then that I felt something inside of me shut down. It shut down and closed off. What ever it was went numb and it hid. When it happened, I didn’t know what it was.

Now I do.

You see, I didn’t cry the first time I saw Theodore. In fact, when I was finally actually able to go and see him for the first time, they almost had to force me. When we got there and I was looking at him, I didn’t want to even touch him. Part of it was because I was scared. I was so incredibly terrified to see my son because I was scared to love him. I knew how critical he was and I was terrified of losing him. I knew that if I loved him and if I bonded with him, and something were to happen, I could never recover.

It took me several days, maybe even weeks to fully bond with Theodore, and it was difficult. Everything felt almost, foreign. Like it did’t belong like that. It was false.

I remember waking up every three hours to pump my breasts and just crying. Not from the pain of cracked nipples or engorgement, but from the aching of my womb. The aching and longing knowing that my little boy should still be in there, He should still be inside, and safe. How could I bond with a baby that I caused so much pain?

…and then there is the guilt. Oh good grief the guilt. I don’t think anything can ever explain the guilt you feel when you have a premature baby. Yeah, yeah; you hear everyone when they tell you it’s not your fault and that some things just happen, but that doesn’t matter to you. The guilt is still there and it is the WORST.

So on top of the fear of losing your child and that causing you to struggle with bonding; add on the guilt and you have your self a big ol’ doozey of an emotional wall.

I remember feeling like if Theodore even did manage to survive, I didn’t deserve to love him. It was my fault he was struggling like he was. If my body had just done what it was biologically designed to do, he would have been fine; but instead I failed him. I failed this perfect and innocent baby in the worst way possible, how in the world could I ever expect to deserve to love him?

It wasn’t until the first time I held Theodore on my chest that I felt that wall start to chip away. The love I had for my son was stronger than any emotional barrier that my hormonal, guilt-ridden self had created.

I knew right there and then, holding my tiny son on my chest; machines breathing for him and keeping him alive, that loving him was worth any pain I could possibly endure a thousand times over. That even if he were to be taken from me and join the heavens, that he would know how much he was loved, and how much he was wanted. That no matter how long the stay, how hard the battle; nothing could stop me from bonding with my son.

He needed me just as much now as he did when I carried him within me, and I needed him.

From that moment on, the bond between Theodore and I has been unimaginable; and as long as he fights, I will be right beside him.

*Below is an excerpt from a Facebook post from when I knew that not even the NICU could stop our bond*

At first I was scared to love you because I was scared to loose you.

The first few days you were here, I tried to keep my distance. They encouraged me to put my hand on your tiny body. They said you’d like that…

I couldn’t.

I was too scared.

I was too scared because I didn’t know if I’d get a chance to love you. If I’d get a change to kiss you and rock you to sleep. “He’s really strong” they said.

I hoped they were telling me the truth, but I figured they told all Moms that who might loose their baby.

I was wrong.

As the days have gone on, you have show us all how strong you are. How much you can accomplish. “Hes a lot sicker than we thought” they said. “His heart is weak and damaging his lungs” they said.

“He has double pneumonia” they said. “He has a collapsed lung” they said.

You coded one day. Your heartbeat was gone and as they gave you CPR, briefly I could see in some of their faces that they weren’t sure if you would make it. It was the same look I saw in my own face after the first time I saw you. “He’s really strong” I told them.

I was right.

Ever since that day you have only gotten stronger, who knows, maybe you needed a quick pep talk with God before they got you back with CPR and brought you back to us.

At first I was scared to love you because I couldn’t handle loosing you.

Now I can’t even imagine life without you here. Keep going my sweet boy. Keep it up and show everyone what a fighter you are.

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