In my mind, I clearly remember the first time I noticed the bright pink sign on the door to my room in the post-partum wing.

The night before, Elliot & Finn arrived in the world and were swept away to the NICU. I had been down to see them after we got the clear from the NICU staff the night before, and we went back down first thing the next morning. We spent the morning holding Finn when we were allowed to do so, staring at him in his isolette, and holding Elliot’s hand since we couldn’t actually hold him. We brought our parents in to meet their grandbabies for the first time. We were trying as hard as we could to be “normal” parents and do “normal” things with our newborns.  That afternoon, we headed back to my room to take a nap between hands-on times. I’d been on my feet all morning, leaving my wheelchair behind as much as I could so I could interact with both boys, and at less than 24 hours post c-section, I was running out of steam.

Mr. Blue wheeled me to the elevator and down the hall.  The nurses asked how the babies were and shot sympathetic looks our way. We got to the door of my room, and there was the sign: a bright pink laminated sheet of paper with a single, giant letter on it.

N.

I stared at that letter N for a moment, confused by what it was or what it meant.  Slowly, comprehension spread through my mind.  The “N” was for NICU. It told every nurse, doctor, etc. that there was no happy family inside that door, that when they entered no baby would be nursing on its mothers breast, no proud father would be introducing his child to family. Instead, it was an empty room where someone clearly slept but nothing else.  This wasn’t the place that a family would spend its first days together. It wasn’t the place that a recovering mom could lie down with her child in her arms.  It wasn’t a celebratory place. It was just a place to sleep and take meds and grab the occasional shower.

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Something about that sign took root in my heart and I felt a deep, scarring bitterness. I wanted to rip that sign off the door.  It was a visible mark of the loss and pain of not having my babies with me. I looked at it and couldn’t help but imagine all the interactions that were going on in the rooms around me.  A family was up at 3 a.m. feeding a hungry baby who had just eaten an hour ago and wishing they could get a little more sleep, while I was yearning to get to wake up with my baby at 3 a.m. Grandparents were visiting with gifts and laughter and tears, while our parents spent 5 minutes scrubbing in, had to wear a protective gown, and couldn’t hold either of their grandsons. A mom was nursing her baby with the help of a lactation consultant, while I wasn’t even allowed to hold one of my sons, much less feed him. It was incredibly hard to not let resentment eat away at me while I imagined the perfect happenings that were surely happening all around me.

Happily, our boys were pretty healthy and only stayed in the NICU for a little over a week, but that pink sign on the door has never left my heart.  It symbolizes all that I wish for with this pregnancy.

  • I hope for a pregnancy that is complication and worry-free. I hope my body will work like it’s supposed to and go into labor on its own.
  • I hope f0r a VBAC. I don’t regret my c-section because it’s what needed to happen to get my boys safely here, but I hope to know what it feels like to deliver a child and have it placed in my arms and on my chest. I hope it will go smoothly and that I will be able to pick up and love on my toddlers as soon as I get home.
  • I hope to be able to breastfeed right away instead of several hours or 24 hours later, for my respective boys. I hope to have them with me and to feed on demand instead of on the three-hour NICU schedule. I hope to be more successful at breastfeeding with the opportunity to lay a better foundation.
  • I hope to not have anyone tell me I’m not allowed to see my child between these hours of the day.
  • I hope that my baby won’t leave my side. I hope it gets to stay right in my room with me for virtually every minute of my hospital stay. I hope I get woken up all through the night because I know what it’s like to not have that privilege.
  • I hope that I’ll never again know the horror of having to leave my 3-day old baby in the hospital when I’m discharged. Nothing in my life felt more wrong then leaving without them.
  • I hope for a chunky little 7 or 8-pound bruiser that we don’t have to worry quite so much about weight gain.

There are so many little things that I hope go differently, but mostly I just want to feel and experience what it’s like when everything goes as it should. I get that not all of those things are “bad”–who doesn’t want to get some rest and there’s no shame in sending a baby to the nursery for a little while–but they’re all about things that I wasn’t free to choose or experience.

Here’s hoping for no pink sign on the door this time.

If a previous pregnancy or delivery didn’t go as planned, did you feel haunted by it during a subsequent pregnancy?