Premature

          I was always curious about what it was like for my mum, giving birth to a set of premature twins — specifically, twins born 26 weeks before the due date, which, especially back then, was dire to say the least. Many illnesses arose due to the sheer number of weeks that I was premature. When I was interviewing my mother, I grew emotional, listening to a story in which my life was at stake— a story that I was too young to even remember. I learned just how close I had been to dying, and just how many lasting impacts it had on me as I grew. I suddenly understood many aspects of my childhood — why finally reaching the last of many doctor’s appointments at 18 years old was such a large milestone. It all clicked into place, and I empathised with my mother so much it brought me to tears. My mother's story was full of anxiety, turmoil and eventual relief. My brother and I, despite the statistics and sicknesses that plagued our parent’s minds, survived.

          Nothing made sense to her; my mother had no idea that premature babies were an actual thing. This, plus the knowledge that she’d just given birth to two premature children, left her shaken. My dad sped behind the nurses that rushed my mother away into an elevator. The nurses showed great urgency in keeping the babies alive; my mother said, “It wasn’t just a job.” They were saving lives.

          In only a couple of minutes we had moved from the 6th floor to the 3rd, referred to as the neonatal intensive care unit, or the NICU.

          After many continuous visits, the NICU slowly proved itself to have a saddening atmosphere. Machinery covered the place, making it feel alien. Blaring alarms, an utter lack of sunlight or reassurance. It was depressing. Daunting... A hospital is supposed to be a place where people receive treatment and recover from their ailments. And yet, the neonatal intensive care unit was anything but. It felt like you were sending your children off to die.

          Twins are usually born minutes between each other, sometimes even seconds. She wasn’t informed of this. When her son was born 3 hours after her daughter, she hadn’t fully understood the severity of the situation. Both babies were born 26 weeks premature and both transported to the NICU.  They were in separate rooms. My mother was forced to watch her children through glass, slowly coming to terms with the life-threatening circumstances they were in. Head pounding due to the consistent worry for her children, for their future— if they were even going to have one. The rushes of panic accompanied with the sounds of sobbing, stressed parents became a routine, and all you could do was pray it wouldn’t be your turn to grieve.

          She connected with another mother, who had a set of premature twins like her. It was comforting. They could converse and relate to their experiences.

          She’d stay 7am to 9pm. The drive from Erskine Park to Westmead Hospital is just under 30 minutes, so she spent around 14 hours of her days dedicated to us. Every day, watching as other babies passed away. Day 1 soon passed, day 2 arrived. Tension rose. The atmosphere of the NICU slowly took its toll on my mother. The area, with no natural sunlight, was dark. Dreary. “Dingy,” in her words. It never stopped her from showing up every day, of course. Seeing her babies alive was worth it.

          Day 3 soon struck. A slight relief washed over my mother as she realised that her children had survived, despite all odds. She was told that most premature babies don’t survive three days by the doctors and nurses. She went to her friend, to celebrate. The battle wasn’t over, but we hadn’t lost yet.

          And then my mother saw her. Her face was sunken, eyes red and puffy, “My daughter died on day 3.”

          Thanks to that one comment that her friend made, all my mother’s hope was gone. She was inconsolable, tears running down her cheeks, hyperventilating; she thought her children were going to die, all because of one comment… Maybe that was why they were advised not to talk about their experiences with their children to one another. The comparisons were dangerous.

          90 days. 90 days was how long it took for my brother and I to be able to leave the hospital. However, just because we were deemed healthy enough to leave, it didn’t mean that we were safe. We were extremely prone to sickness and disease; and, in a book that the nurses gave my mother, the survival rate for newborns born 26 weeks premature was dangerously low. The statistics noted in the book said that babies born at 26 weeks have a 57-71% chance of surviving to 1 year of age. The department of health states: “For babies born at 25 or 26 weeks the chance of survival if they receive intensive treatment is about 80%.” Milestones started small, from 3 days to a few months, and slowly finalised at 1 year.

          “We didn’t allow people to come over.”

          Our home, once lively, became quiet. Fear controlled my mother — controlled how many people she’d allow in. A few scares occurred— my brother getting sick on the way home with a staph infection being one of them. She had only ever heard of the golden staph, which is an infection fatal to babies. One scare after another left her on edge, and yet they slowly became less and less frequent as time went on. Fear became replaced with hope.

          The one-year milestone was soon reached for my brother and I, and my mother cried. For once, it was not tears resulting from fear or anxiety— it was joy. Relief. Gratitude. She was so happy, and yet one thing still lingered in her mind from the hospital: The NICU, how taxing it was on people’s minds, parents especially. My dad and mum took part in initiatives to raise money for the NICU. Now it is better, brighter. A stark difference to how it used to be. There is now a welcoming atmosphere, one you’d be reassured to see instead of terrified. There is more room in the NICU, with parents able to see their children. There is less anxiety involved when confiding in those going through the same thing. It’s just a shame that it took so much emotional anguish to get there. The experiences witnessed will forever be burned into my mother’s mind.