Together again.

So, the twins were reunited the other day, and it was the biggest moment of my life. 

 

These two babies, whom I have spent the past 35 weeks clinging to and holding on to, and talking to, and pleding with, and all of a sudden this moment is happening, and I'm traumatized by it all for the first time, because I realize I had been believing with every ounce of me in their existence so hard, that I never let in the opportunity that their existence might not be. I feel like I survived a ship wreck. I feel like I went to a place I didn't think I could go, and I walked out the other side. I feel like I just walked out of a battle I didn't know I'd win, I just fought it believing I could, against all odds.

They were reunited a couple nights ago, but I was alone, and I needed my husband, the solid rock that had carried all of us, to be there to witness this event, this thing that is the cumulation of our hopes and dreams, and believing in life when I'm holding our baby's hand, and he's dying, and I'm asking him to stay.

I sat at the cafeteria, my safe space, after I heard the news. Nobody called to tell me they were moving Lazlo like they had with Gus, I just arrived at the PICN (Pediatric Intensive Care Nursery) to drop off Gus's milk and say hello, and Lazlo was there. There he was, in the other room of the PICN, in his "big boy crib."

 

And I stood there in shock. I said hello to him, though he was peacefully asleep. Did he even know anything was different? Or was he acutely aware? Was he afraid? I ran to the cafeteria. I couldn't figure out why I was sad, because I had every reason to be happy. So I told no one. And later, I realized it was because I'd just survived a war, and I couldn't let myself feel sorrow while I was fighting. So, I felt it then, when it was safe.

Then, later, with Gus in my arms, I video chatted with Mike and the kids while Lazlo was brought to his new home, next to Gus, his twin brother, and we've been talking about this day for so long, and the nurses were promising him that place, against the wall, next to Gus's crib, and we've been daring to believe it, and now it's a reality.

Moments before, I was at Lazlo's bedside in room 2, a room at the other end of the PICN. I didn't even know it existed, but I loved it. It was quieter and softer. The nurses were older and calmer. There lights were dimmer, and the beeps were quieter, somehow. Room 1 is much larger and busier. As I held Lazlo in my arms, a nurse practitioner I barely recognized approached me. She told me she had been there one of the nights we almost lost him. She couldn't believe this day had come for Lazlo. I couldn't either. I finally had the nerve to start asking questions.

How many babies have you seen that were as sick as Lazlo? And how many of those babies survived?

The answers were humbling, but not surprising. And somehow, here he was, in the PICN, for reasons I couldn't explain, other than the fact that I don't have all the answers, and life has its own way. Even though Room 2 felt like a quiet haven I wasn't sure I wanted to leave, I was never so happy to hold them together for the first time in Room 1, surrounded by other parents living their miracles.