I don't usually write. But this year I feel like I have to.
6 years have passed since my Jonathan (or as I call him – Yonatan Haim of Mom ????) was born.
6 years since the great professor told me that "he would be happy to see me in a week" and in the same breath suggested that we participate in his research. On the one hand, telling us that the fetus doesn't have much chance, and on the other hand, talking about his research. People can be very delusional in certain situations. We left there quite shocked. But somehow we continued to believe.
6 years since my best friend referred me to her doctor. The best advice I ever received in my life. The advice that in retrospect saved my child.
6 years since the nice and pleasant doctor told us: "Your life is going to change. Take the weekend. Enjoy yourself, have fun, go to a movie, have a good meal, pack a big bag and arrive at the hospital on Sunday. You are going to be hospitalized until the birth and you will have a difficult time until then and in prematurity."
How right he was…
Welcome to the high-risk pregnancy ward. Hi Risk. Endless monitors every day. Urine tests. Blood tests. Ultrasound. Lung maturation injections. Dozens of doctors. Internists. Nurses. And even a psychologist. Some don't understand. How can it be? She has no water. The fetus is small. She needs the baby. And only the ward manager keeps saying: "I'm greedy here at least until week 32. At least."
I won't forget the regular routine every weekend when the intern on duty takes me to the delivery room and wants to operate on me as soon as possible. Because he sees slowdowns. Because he sees there is no amniotic fluid. Because the fetus is really small. And again the director of the department: "Keep me here until week 32."
In between, in this not-so-simple place, a sisterhood of girls is formed. Each with her own story. All expecting. All at risk. Spending time together. Becoming friends. Listening. Laughing. Playing Taki in the kitchen. Eating together. Getting to know each other's partners and families. Bonding.
The mental difficulty is always in the background. Worry mixed with hope and faith.
And then – Tu B'Av.
There are several women sleeping with me who have planned their cesarean section for this date. "It's very special." "I specifically requested it."
And me? I just want to have a child. Alive. Breathing. Healthy. Who cares about the date? I wonder, how come they don't notice the obvious miracle they experience when, a few meters away, women lie who are not sure they came out with their hands full?
Sweet Liron brings me perfume. After all, it's Valentine's Day. Allowing myself to be a little "happy." Already in the private room. The oldest in the hospital. The friends have already given birth, are recovering, the babies are premature.
Attached to the monitor. All evening. The fetus is not calm today. I'm supposed to give birth in 3 days. I'm letting Liron go home. It's getting late. Rest. In a few minutes they'll probably disconnect me.
So that's it, they didn't hang up.
The nurse comes in worried. There are slowdowns. I have to connect you to oxygen. This isn't the first time, so I'm not excited. They call an emergency doctor. Another ultrasound. They connect me to the monitor all night. Early in the morning they disconnect. We'll wait for the senior doctor to arrive in the morning.
And he comes. "What would be greedy?"
I'm tired, I tell him.
"So let's have surgery today."
No problem. On one condition – that you do it.
And so it was. After a few hours, I find myself in an operating room. Alone. It's an emergency surgery. Not the happiest thing in the world. My partner can't come in.
A nice young doctor comes up to me: "If he breathes, we'll let you kiss him quickly and take him to intensive care quickly." Oh my God. What did she just tell me?! Let him just breathe! Let him cry!
They cut. Fifteen minutes pass. I'm tense. The doctor urges me to calm me down. "Don't cut like that. Greedy wants to wear a bikini. Greedy, don't worry..."
The fetus is being taken out. He's crying!!!!!! Yesssssssssss!!!! He's breathing!!!!!!! I've never been so happy. The child is a-w-s-m! H-y! Thank God!
"Quickly weigh him," says the doctor. "I want to know if I was right in estimating his weight."
785 grams. Market. I secretly hoped that he was wrong. That he weighed much more. I'm buying a kilo, I would tell Liron. A kilo. But it's less. Less than a kilo of sugar. Take a kilo of sugar at home. You probably have it. Pick it up. Yonatan weighed less.
"You see, greedy, I'm never wrong," he tells me, peeking and smiling from behind the curtain.
I smiled faintly. A lovely doctor. Tries and succeeds in encouraging me a little. Thanks to him, I got through the surgery.
Hurry up now. Bring him to me. A quick kiss. As quickly as possible. Straight to the incubator. Running to intensive care. And that's it. I have no idea what they're doing to him.
When you give birth prematurely, no one puts it on your chest. There is no hug and touch from mom and dad. There is no warmth, love, caresses, first words, excitement. There is survival. Worry. A roller coaster that starts now and we don't know when we will get off it. And lots and lots of faith.
Recovery. Excruciating pain. What about the child, Liron? What about him? What are we doing to him? What is his condition?
He'll be fine, he answers me. They're treating him. He's in intensive care. He's not on a ventilator!!! Would you believe it? Those injections did their job. He has a platelet problem. They gave him a blood transfusion. Don't worry.
My whole family is coming to visit. Congratulations, they say. Congratulations? I don't think so. The child is not with me. He is there.
One of the hardest things was that the high-risk ward was inside the maternity ward (happily, I recently discovered that they had separated the wards and created a new ward). Maternity is a happy place. The happiest in the hospital. Families come to visit. Balloons fly in their rooms. They have a sign with the gender of the newborn. And the fruit, oh the fruit. Fruit baskets full of all sorts of goodies. How I wanted one of these. How I wanted a balloon. But when you give birth prematurely, you don't get all these instructions. You're more concerned with how you'll manage to go to the maternity ward alone after the surgery to see your child? How will you pump milk? What will happen to him? Platelets? Brain? Kidneys? Liver? Heart? Stomach? So many things to worry about. So many organs! Everything is essential. Everything has to function.
Midnight. Alone. Liron has a hard time sleeping in hospitals. A charming trainee nurse I will never forget helps me get out of bed. I have to recover as quickly as possible. There are 785 grams that need me. First steps. Intense pain. And there at the desk is my surgeon. "Greedy, you should be running a marathon by now," he laughs. "Don't worry," he tells me again (at a later stage he will come to visit the child in the neonatal unit. He will inquire about his well-being and tell the intensive care director: "You see, I told the mother she had nothing to worry about").
The postpartum period was the hardest time of my life. If I thought the hospitalization was terrible (I felt like I was in prison), I simply didn't understand how hard it was to be a postpartum woman. Although I remember every detail, it's hard for me to write about it in detail. Therefore, I will only share a few anecdotes.
Doctors and nurses: "You must pump milk. Breast milk is the best medicine for the fetus."
A mantra that keeps repeating itself. I had a really hard time with it. It felt like brainwashing. Go explain that you gave birth prematurely and your body isn't responding properly. Go explain that you're stressed.
But you have to pump every 3 hours.
3 days after the surgery. Woke up in the middle of the night in the pumping room in the hospital. A little explanation: pumping is not just pumping. It's disinfecting, rinsing, pumping, disinfecting again, rinsing again, marking, cooling. A complete procedure. I'm alone in the pumping room. Barely 8 cc comes out after 40 minutes of pumping, sweat, and tears. I take a syringe (yes, a syringe. It's a miniature amount). I pour the milk in there. It all spills out. I realize I forgot to close it with a stopper. I close it quickly. I managed to save 3 cc. I cry like I've never cried before. Despite the stitches. Who said you don't cry over spilled milk?
From the clichés of prematurity: "If you haven't been contacted, everything is fine. If the doctor calls you, that's not good." "There is no constant increase in prematurity. There are days when there is progress and days when there is regression."
So the doctor called us. We were having good days. But, as we said, there is no constant increase…
"After a long time, we were able to take a urine test and the baby has CMV. We don't know if it's congenital or acquired. If it's congenital – .... Or in short: terrible. If not, it's just a hearing test. Luckily for you, we're the only hospital in the country that takes a saliva sample from the newborn and that will help us decide."
Shock. I didn't expect this. I was sure we would break the statistics. "The only premature baby who didn't stop getting better until he was released! A medical miracle." Ha ha ha, God told me. Cry, cry a lot. Cry again. Eagerly awaiting answers. Psalms and endless prayers.
The answers were good 🙂
Discharge call. We go to the doctor. An hour-long conversation. We discovered things we didn't even know he had. 12 pages of discharge letter. 10 follow-up clinics. Surgery that needs to be done. Liver problem. Special medication that needs to be taken. And more... we still felt like we got out relatively cheap.
"Yonathan," I would whisper to him. "Do me a favor, let's get out before the holidays. I don't feel like being here in a motel. I really don't. Have mercy on Mom." Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot – we spent them all in the maternity ward. The day Jonathan was supposed to be released, he decided to lose weight... genius ☹️
Then the long-awaited phone call from my favorite nurse: "Hagit, you're being released today!". Supreme happiness.
No need to come to Pegia anymore! Free at last!.
We went through a difficult time at home, we went back to the hospital many times. There were also hospitalizations. And yet every time we returned home, I felt relieved – at least we were sleeping at home.
Raising a preemie is not easy. There are many challenges. It takes a lot of patience. It takes a lot of faith. And also determination – to hear a few opinions, go to the best experts, respond calmly, read, learn, invest. It's an investment of a different kind.
There are more and less severe cases. I'm sure. That's not the point. The point is that it's not normal. Nothing about this "experience" is normal. People give birth, are discharged after a few days, and return home to gas and diapers. There's no obvious miracle about it. People aren't aware that a few meters from their babies, premature babies lie with worried parents next to them who didn't get this miracle.
Premature babies don't come home after a few days. There's no full domestication. No first shower with mom and dad. No direct contact. No breastfeeding. These are "privileges" that only come with a normal birth. Even changing a diaper is a nightmare. Imagine changing a diaper with dozens of tubes connected, a tiny baby, when there are only 2 holes through which you can put your hands.
What is there? There are nights when the child is left in the hospital. He cries. And they don't always approach him.
There are pangs of conscience. Severe ones.
There are tears. Lots of them. Lots of them. Lots of them.
There are endless pumpings.
There are doctors, nurses, and staff members. Good people who do holy work and save the lives of helpless babies.
There is hope and faith. You can't survive without it. You can't succeed without it.
That's it, I'm done. You're probably curious, what about Yonatan (Yonatan Haim – his full name)?
He is a charming boy, smart, smiling, and playful, who will be entering first grade next year, God willing!
He is our personal miracle, our superhero, who is currently celebrating his 6th birthday.
He's been through a lot in life, from less than a pound of sugar to pounds of joy and mischief.
We thank God for granting us this gift.
I get excited every year. I get excited about every party (go explain to the mothers why you're crying at the Hanukkah party...), event, painting, jumping, new thing he does. Every little step he takes on the ladder of life.
Proud of you, my Jonathan. Love you. Wishing you much health and happiness. Congratulations and…thank you!
