THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF CALI JOY

The early days of motherhood rocked my world. My body was still healing; I was pumping every two hours while my mind was being drowned with information about Caliyah’ syndrome and needs. The hardest part was adapting to life in the NICU. Rome and I were cooped up in a small room, filled with machines and a little space for us to sit on a bench or the recliner. There was a revolving door of doctors coming in trying to update us, but all we wanted was a few quiet moments with Caliyah. I’ll never forget wanting to hold her and having to buzz the nurse in to get permission and for help to pick her up. Like this is my child, and I can’t do something as simple as picking her up. That was when it hit me how different life would be mothering a child that was in the NICU.  I had many more moments like that, where I would have to remove my preconceived idea of what motherhood would look like for me and adapt to my new reality.

The NICU life broke me down in those initial days, and slowly day by day, like anything else in life, I became more accustomed to it. For instance, my daughter was intubated with a breathing tube in her mouth, so that means I couldn’t hear her cry. She would make a crying face, and tears would come out, but no noise would echo around the room. The sound that I did hear was machines going off. I would hear a loud beep, and the anxiety started to build up with each alarm. Every little noise made me call the nurse and ask, “Is she okay?” They would come in so clam and silence the machine and say “ her heartrate just jumped up, she’s fine” I still have moments that my heart drops a bit when I hear her heart monitor beep. I was always on edge those first days.

I could feel myself spiraling deeper into my postpartum depression until I hit rock bottom on day two of her life. At that point, the doctors had sat with us and explained she would be here for months, that she would need to have two open skull surgeries by her six month birthday. My mind was blown; she was only supposed to be here for testing. I am not supposed to spend my entire maternity leave in the hospital. I was extremely hurt after that doctors' visits. By this point, we had not made the big announcement to the world that I had given birth. My close friends and family knew, but the world didn't know. I had text and calls coming in asking how she was doing, asking for pictures, and I hadn't quite come to grips on how hard it would be to share that news.

Rome and I drafted up a message and decided it was time to post it on social media. We were in her room when we finished it and posted it. Within 5 minutes, I got dozens of text messages of love and support. I don't know what it was, but it finally felt real. After reading a handful, I dropped to the couch and let out this biggest cry, one of those ugly ones that must have rung through the NICU. Our nurse came in asked if she could get us anything and then closed the door. Rome held me for 10 minutes as I sobbed into his shirt, as he rubbed my back, he repeated: "it's going to be okay." I kept saying; I don't think I can do this; I don't think I am strong enough for this. He kept saying, yes, you are, we have no choice but to be strong. I finally dried up my tears and headed out of the NICU, as we walked to the exit about four nurses gave me a comforting smile and said it would be okay. It was pretty obvious they heard me balling.

Rome and I stayed up for a few hours when we got home; we shared the news with my parents, who were still staying with us. Rome went upstairs, and I will never forget the parent hug sandwich they gave me. I cried in my dad's arms for what felt like 30 minutes, and we all just embraced each other. My parents gave me the pep talk of my life. They quoted scriptures, reminded me that God had taken me too far to leave me now. That things seemed unbearable now, but there will be brighter days. One of those moments that reminded me that no matter how old we get, that our parents always have a way to comfort us. I felt like I was that five-year-old Falesha, that had a nightmare and would run into my parent's room at midnight, they would cuddle me, tell me Chucky wasn't real (lol) let me fall asleep in their bed and I would wake up in my bed. That moment they gave me that parent hug, gave me words of wisdom, and then set me free, knowing I possed all the tools to handle what was in front of me. After about an hour, I went upstairs and had a long talk with Rome, and we agreed that I needed to stay home the next day. I needed to rest; I needed some time away from the hospital to get my mind in a better place. I woke up the next day, and my parents catered to me while my husband tended to our daughter. This would be a pattern in our parenthood journey, tagging each other in and out, to break for self-care.