This morning I got up, wiped the sleep from my eyes and prepared three bottles. It was a short night, as it usually is when caring for three eleven month olds that don't realize that they are supposed to sleep through the night. I wished everyone a happy morning and made silly faces as I fed babies their bottles. I then wrangled three squirmy babies into clean diapers and the clothes that they would be wearing today.
As Brian left for work I hunkered down for what would surely be another very busy day, entertaining, feeding, changing, and loving three of my own. As I sit here now and I type this, all three are asleep taking a nap. When they wake up I've got a fantastic supper of green beans and yogurt planned. I will then strip them all down and plunk them in the tub for one of my favorite times of the day: bathtime. After the bath we will feed, rock, love and kiss goodnight our three miracles.
Just another Saturday in the Koob household.
But as I sit and look at the faces of my three children, I'm thrown unexpectedly into my memories.
February 2nd, 2012.
I traveled up to Rochester for what I hoped would be another routine appointment. I had been put on bedrest a few weeks prior, on January 18th. I was nervous going up there, but I was also excitedly anticipating the ultrasound that we were scheduled to have. I loved seeing the babies on the screen. To see them and know that everything was okay was always such a good feeling.
I met with my MFM (Obstetrician for high-risk pregnancies) and had a quick appointment. He told me would see me again after my ultrasound, which was to follow in 30 minutes.
Fast forward to my ultrasound Horrible news. My body was carrying the weight of a full-term singleton pregnancy. It didn't know that it was too soon to have my babies. All it knew was that it had reached capacity and it was time to evict the tenants. I was progressing towards labor, and very quickly.
I was ushered back to my MFM's office where I knew even worse news awaited me. Preterm labor. Contractions. Dilation. Probable delivery. Too early for viability.
I was admitted to Rochester Methodist hospital and told that I probably wouldn't make it through the weekend pregnant. We met with one of the head neonatologists and he walked us through what a baby born at this gestation faces. He told us statistic after statistic, each more grim than the last. He also told us that soon we would be in a grey area. 23 weeks. Legally, they don't have to do anything to a baby born at 23 weeks. BUT, if the parents want to take any and all lifesaving actions, the medical team would do so. Brian and I faced a very difficult decision. How much to intervene should our babies be born this soon. Too soon.
February 2nd. One of the scariest days of my life. The beginning of a crazy 4 months living in Rochester.
Of course, you all know how the story ended. I didn't end up delivering that weekend. I held on for 24 more days. And Thank God that I was able to.
But today, as Addison got overtired and fussed her way into her afternoon nap, or as Noah got mad about the peas I was feeding him and spit them all over me, I couldn't do anything but smile.
What a difference a year makes.