Dear Baby (“Birdy”),
Today you are a mere 27 weeks old, and we will be in the hospital until the day you are born. We have to take this day by day now, you and me, but after relentless pestering for some tangible information, we have set a first goal to get you to 28 weeks. Then 30 weeks. Then 32 weeks. I am told the unlikely (but possible, I am clinging to) scenario is that we can get you to 34 weeks.
I don’t know when we will meet you, but it will be much sooner than expected. Too soon. And while I planned that your first day on Earth would be perfect and peaceful and full of milk and skin to skin contact and candlelight and soft voices and maybe some John Lennon playing softly in the background, I am angry, heartbroken, and terrified, because I now know that I won’t be able to give that to you.
Birdy, on your first day on Earth, you are going to have to fight.
And I am so, so sorry. I am sorry to demand this of your teeny, tiny little body while I lie here feeling like a helpless whale. I will fight for you, until this day comes, to keep you safe inside me. Every day counts. Every nursing shift counts. But coming is a day when keeping you inside is no longer safe for one or both of us.
My eyes are swollen shut from crying. Crying won’t fix this, so instead, I will write.
You are loved. We will fight. Grow, Birdy, grow.
