Dear Sweet Warrior,

Andrea

As I sit here staring at the machines, tubes, lines, and medications that are keeping you alive, I think of how just a week ago you were safe inside my womb.

I want so badly to hold you, to feed you, and to bond with you. My heart longs to connect with yours, but all I can do is watch your heart monitor closely. I may not be able to snuggle you, but I am watching your every breath. I may not be able to feed you, but I am learning about your medications. I may not be able to take you home, but I am sitting right by your side in this hospital, making it our home for now, loving you in the only ways I can.

This is my version of motherhood. It isn’t what I hoped for; partnering with these machines and medications in the care and sustaining of your little body. It isn’t natural. I struggle to learn medical terms and what each number on your monitor means. I try to keep up with the constant changes in medications and status updates on your health, but my mind and body are exhausted, working overtime to somehow heal and rest while advocating for you at the same time. I wake up in the middle of the night, eyes blurry and mind groggy, and I scan the monitors for abnormal numbers. Most new mothers find comfort in holding their child, but I find comfort in a familiar range of numbers and rhythm of machines beeping, telling me that you are okay.

I long for normal. I know this is where you need to be, and I thank God that you have the care that you need, but everything in me wants to scoop you up and run. But I stay, and I hold your hand. I know you are in a deep sleep, but I am here speaking life and love into your little ears as you rest and heal. I know you can hear me, because you pucker your lips and move your toes as I tell you that I love you, and how strong you are. I take a breath, and I keep fighting for you. This is your fight, but you are not alone.

The life of a heart mom brings a mixture of sorrow and joy, but each day as I partner with doctors, nurses, machines, medications, tubes and lines to keep you safe and healthy, I am humbled. I watch you fight with strength and courage, and thank God as I see my prayers being answered. The joy outweighs the sorrow as hope begins to rear its head, and you come out of the woods. This is not normal, but this is our normal.

What a privilege it is to be your mother, sweet warrior. Keep fighting.

Love, mama