Today, it turns out, is national Prematurity Awareness Day. It also happens to be the UN International Day for Tolerance, Admission Day in Oklahoma (after a few minutes of Googling I gave up on trying to figure out what that one is about) and in Estonia the locals are celebrating their Day of National Rebirth. But those are for another day and another blogger to ponder.
Prematurity is rarely a good thing. There is premature baldness. Premature graying for those who manage to keep their hair. And in the boudoir too many premature performances can lead to the early demise of a relationship.
Today’s national awareness day, however, is about the birth of babies before they are due. According to the March of Dimes, which began the campaign last year, one in eight babies born in the United States each day arrives too soon – sometimes way, way too soon.
Such is the case with my friends Mary and John. Their baby was due in February 2005. But after hearing that President Bush was planning another round of tax cuts for the middle class, Will decided he wanted in on the deal and came into the world on Oct. 26, at the not-quite-ripe age of 24 weeks. He weighed less than a pound when he was delivered and measured just over 10 inches long.
It is difficult to imagine a human being that small outside of the womb. One incredible photograph taken by John shows Will’s footprint alongside a quarter. The quarter is only slightly smaller than the foot. To put things in even greater perspective, a website about the developmental stages of the fetus says that at 24 weeks a baby’s eyes have just fully developed, it can demonstrate both hand and startle reflexes, it is beginning to form footprints and fingerprints and it is forming alveoli in the lungs. It still has to look forward to controlling some body functions and developing eyelids that open and close (26 to 28 weeks) and rhythmic breathing and partial control of body temperature (30 to 32 weeks).
In other words, John, Mary and Will have a long road ahead of them. But I’m hopeful. Will couldn’t have asked for better parents. They are salt of the earth kind of people: kind-hearted, bright, funny, generous to a fault. They give Midwesterners a good name. And they’ve been blessed with a wonderful family and lots of friends who care a great deal about them. A number of these friends spent a recent Saturday morning raking the autumn leaves from their yard. Others have been stocking their freezer with enough home-cooked meals to last them until Will finishes graduate school. As for the hospital where Will is going to spend Thanksgiving, and Christmas and New Year’s Day and possibly next Ground Hog Day and Valentines Day? It’s got one of the country’s premiere premature infant units and some of the world’s top doctors.
So while the Estonians get mad drunk on grog and dance their crazy Estonian dances in celebration of National Rebirth Day, Mary and John will be spending today beside Will’s hospital bassinette, watching his tiny inhalations and exhalations, the flicker of eyes beneath paper-thin eyelids, and trying their best to ignore the beeps and hum of the machinery in the background and the tubes snaking to and from Will’s delicate body. That’s how they’ll spend the next day, too. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until the day comes, at long last, when they can finally bring Will home and celebrate a kind of rebirth, too, when Will sheds the label of premature infant and simply becomes John and Mary’s son.
John has started his own blog about Will, and I don’t think they’d mind if I shared it here: www.willkenyon.blogspot.com/ John’s an incredible writer, and his updates on Will’s progress make for some gripping reading.
And if you’re interested in learning more about premature babies, the March of Dimes website is a great starting point: http://marchofdimes.com/prematurity/prematurity.asp/ In addition to information about Prematurity Awareness Day, the organization has created a way to donate to the cause through a “bandingtogether” campaign.
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Monday, November 15, 2004
A Proposal
In the interest of keeping the ball rolling on this blog I may occasionally pull something out of my Trunk Of Unfinished Things -- random thoughts, writings, etc. -- and post it here in the light of day. Today is one such day.
I actually wrote the following essay over a year ago, then recently brushed it up before submitting it to a local radio program that was looking for things to read on a weekend talk/arts program. In the end they said thanks but no thanks (though they encouraged me to send a few more poems, some of which may appear here at a later date). Probably it was just too sentimental. But I don't apologize for that. I come from a long line of weepy Italian men, and the older I get the more I appreciate that side of me -- the side that can be laid low simply by one of my girl's smiles or surprise hugs (the kind where they put you in an armlock and try to wrest your head from your neck).
Hope you enjoy it.
______________
My two daughters and I were at the breakfast table one morning eating, appropriately it now seems, Life cereal when my then-three-year-old, Abigail, popped the question.
"Daddy, when I older can I marry you?" Big blue eyes. Skim milk dribbling down her chin. How could I say no?
"That's very sweet, honey, " I said, "but actually I'm already married to mommy."
Abby's sister, Emma, who was six at the time, offered an elegant solution to this dilemma.
"Just tell mommy, 'Sweetie, I love you very much, but you are too old for me.'"
This did not seem prudent, especially since I'm six years older than Melinda. If anyone's owed a newer model, it's my wife.
I tried to let my daughters down gently.
"I'm flattered, really, but I'm sure both of you will find very nice people to marry when you're older." I coughed. "Much, much older."
My relationship with my daughters seems to be entering a new territory, one I'm not entirely ready to explore. Leading the way is Emma, who in the past year has asked questions – or made observations – about kissing, death, how babies get in a mommy's tummy, lipstick, boyfriends, God, parental sleeping arrangements, Britney Spears, hair dye, and same-sex couple hood.
Mind you, her questions are always G-rated, the kind of things you would expect from someone who still sleeps with a special blanky and considers Kraft macaroni and cheese (the 59-cents-a-box kind, with the packet of orange powder) haute cuisine. Still, it's clear the world is starting to open up for her, from the cozy, familiar microcosm of her yellow-painted bedroom with its dolls and its butterfly-covered comforter and parents who have an answer for everything, to a place colored in myriad shades of gray. A world that's more complex, and therefore more alluring, but also one that is less certain.
It’s the normal course of growing up, I know. Keeping her away from her personal Tree of Knowledge would do her more harm than good in the end. Also, it would be impossible. Just like learning to cross the street safely, or how to dial 911, she needs to understand that life is uncertain and sometimes dangerous if she’s to survive and thrive in this world. So when she starts pushing against the walls of her adolescent world, I try to let in the light and darkness she’s after in small and equal measures. Yes, honey, sometimes pets die, but their memories live on with us always. Yes, some people do hurt other people, but there are many, many others who feed the hungry and care for the sick and hold the lonely in their arms. How you treat people is far more important than how pretty you are.
When Emma was born, a friend told us that parents are given an invisible apron with eighteen strings our children can cling to as they grow up, and that each year we must be willing to cut off one of those strings so that when our daughter becomes an adult she’ll be her own person. It’s a pleasant enough image, even if my wearing an apron is not. But to be honest with you, I’ve been cheating a little since my girls were born. After clipping each string, instead of throwing it away, I’ve been secretly tying it to one of the remaining strings, giving my daughters the distance they need while trying to strengthen the ties that still bind us.
As for that last string? Well, when the time comes, I’m guessing I might just conveniently lose the scissors.
I actually wrote the following essay over a year ago, then recently brushed it up before submitting it to a local radio program that was looking for things to read on a weekend talk/arts program. In the end they said thanks but no thanks (though they encouraged me to send a few more poems, some of which may appear here at a later date). Probably it was just too sentimental. But I don't apologize for that. I come from a long line of weepy Italian men, and the older I get the more I appreciate that side of me -- the side that can be laid low simply by one of my girl's smiles or surprise hugs (the kind where they put you in an armlock and try to wrest your head from your neck).
Hope you enjoy it.
______________
My two daughters and I were at the breakfast table one morning eating, appropriately it now seems, Life cereal when my then-three-year-old, Abigail, popped the question.
"Daddy, when I older can I marry you?" Big blue eyes. Skim milk dribbling down her chin. How could I say no?
"That's very sweet, honey, " I said, "but actually I'm already married to mommy."
Abby's sister, Emma, who was six at the time, offered an elegant solution to this dilemma.
"Just tell mommy, 'Sweetie, I love you very much, but you are too old for me.'"
This did not seem prudent, especially since I'm six years older than Melinda. If anyone's owed a newer model, it's my wife.
I tried to let my daughters down gently.
"I'm flattered, really, but I'm sure both of you will find very nice people to marry when you're older." I coughed. "Much, much older."
My relationship with my daughters seems to be entering a new territory, one I'm not entirely ready to explore. Leading the way is Emma, who in the past year has asked questions – or made observations – about kissing, death, how babies get in a mommy's tummy, lipstick, boyfriends, God, parental sleeping arrangements, Britney Spears, hair dye, and same-sex couple hood.
Mind you, her questions are always G-rated, the kind of things you would expect from someone who still sleeps with a special blanky and considers Kraft macaroni and cheese (the 59-cents-a-box kind, with the packet of orange powder) haute cuisine. Still, it's clear the world is starting to open up for her, from the cozy, familiar microcosm of her yellow-painted bedroom with its dolls and its butterfly-covered comforter and parents who have an answer for everything, to a place colored in myriad shades of gray. A world that's more complex, and therefore more alluring, but also one that is less certain.
It’s the normal course of growing up, I know. Keeping her away from her personal Tree of Knowledge would do her more harm than good in the end. Also, it would be impossible. Just like learning to cross the street safely, or how to dial 911, she needs to understand that life is uncertain and sometimes dangerous if she’s to survive and thrive in this world. So when she starts pushing against the walls of her adolescent world, I try to let in the light and darkness she’s after in small and equal measures. Yes, honey, sometimes pets die, but their memories live on with us always. Yes, some people do hurt other people, but there are many, many others who feed the hungry and care for the sick and hold the lonely in their arms. How you treat people is far more important than how pretty you are.
When Emma was born, a friend told us that parents are given an invisible apron with eighteen strings our children can cling to as they grow up, and that each year we must be willing to cut off one of those strings so that when our daughter becomes an adult she’ll be her own person. It’s a pleasant enough image, even if my wearing an apron is not. But to be honest with you, I’ve been cheating a little since my girls were born. After clipping each string, instead of throwing it away, I’ve been secretly tying it to one of the remaining strings, giving my daughters the distance they need while trying to strengthen the ties that still bind us.
As for that last string? Well, when the time comes, I’m guessing I might just conveniently lose the scissors.
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