Isolets and Isolation

The other night, I lie awake remembering the first time I saw both of my babies - my daughters - in their isolets in the neonatal intensive care unit. I don't even recall how I got there - I was all alone in the room, still in my hospital gown. Someone must have wheeled me upstairs from my birthing suite on the second floor to the NICU on the fourth floor. I stood up from my wheelchair and peered through the clear plastic protecting my babies from the world. Tears welled up in my eyes, overwhelmed by the sight of them. How could I take care of these two miniature human beings? Neither one of them cleared 4 pounds, but the weight of responsibility on me felt immense.

Having your newborn baby/babies in the NICU is...well, it's indescribable. Sitting here thinking about it brings tears to my eyes because of the sheer intensity of emotions and confusion thrust upon you. The experience of giving birth is life changing in itself, but then to have this new life that you've created available for viewing only through a plastic incubator is mind numbing. Luckily for me, I had been prepared for this. Where once upon a time twins were rare, nowadays they are a fixture in malls and playgrounds. Hospitals host twin birthing classes, which my husband and I attended dutifully with five other couples. Essentially, we all knew that the NICU was inevitable. In addition, my close friend and birth coach gave birth to her first son just four months before me, six weeks prior to her due date. I lived the experience through her, and fell in love with her baby from behind the glass, not able to hold him or kiss his tiny face.

So, when I too gave birth six weeks early, there wasn't any question that my girls would be residing in the NICU to begin their lives. I didn't even question the protocol when they were whisked away one by one after being born. Honestly, I'm not even sure if it was because I expected it to be that way, or if I just didn't have the energy.

My memories of those 21 days are clear, but mostly devoid of emotions or reactions. I simply followed the rules, displayed my hospital-issue baby bracelets upon entering the locked unit, washed my hands for the requisite time, delivered expressed milk, and remained dutifully in their room for the majority of each day. However, I did not stand over their isolets staring at their thin bodies - doing so may have put me over the edge. It was my way of protecting myself from the utter fear of failing at the thing that women are supposed to know how to do, but are unprepared for, regardless of the life we lead up to that point.

I felt sad for that version of me standing there in my hospital gown, crying for babies I had not yet held in my arms. I wish I could have known that being a mother fills me with pride everyday. If I could wear a sign on my forehead announcing it, I would. I wish I could have known that I could take care of both those tiny wrinkly babies, and that with everything in life, it ebbs and flows - just when you think you can't take it anymore, you get a respite.