My baby. It took me a while to whisper those words to the tiny, blood-red thing quivering within a nest of rolled-up cloth nappies. His hospital tags bore my name, but how could I have possibly earned the right to call myself a mother when the only thing I could do for my son each day…
I met you in the hospital tearoom once. Quietly sat with your partner, a small, wan face amid the shrieks of small children scuttling across the carpet. But they weren’t yours. Five months after he took his first breath you were still waiting for him to come home. I think until I spoke to you…
It started off as a minor irritant. A prickle, easily brushed aside. But after what felt like the 200th time someone blithely compared my micropremmie to a ‘normal’ baby, that word felt like a festering sore which was never allowed to heal. Ok, in the scheme of things, it wasn’t the worst thing you could…
Real-life stories from the NICU brought to you by www.milkymums.org.au
Life after NICU, healing and moving on, parenting a micropreemie
for premature babies and their families
558 grams 