Due dates and depression

Yesterday was my son's original due date. When we found out what his due date was, I smiled and giggled because my husband (who is not really my legal husband as of yet, but for all intents and purposes I'll just refer to him as such) and I met at work. Okay, I know that makes no sense to you so let me give you some details that will help it make sense. You see, we live in Las Vegas, NV. Though there are hundreds of thousands of other jobs and other fields out here, we both were working at a "hotel and casino" in the downtown area. He had been working there in security for about 6 months before I was hired to be a lead at the hotel's Front Desk. We met within a week or so of my first day, and everything just blossomed from there like nothing either of us had experienced and we just knew this was meant to be. And now here we are roughly a year later with our son living as one happy little family. Okay, I'm sure you're still not getting the connection and why his due date made me smile and giggle. Yesterday's date was 7/27/17. Still confused? 7/27/17 Sebastian's due date had three 7's in it. If you know anything about gambling and/or slot machines then you know 777 is a jackpot. Get it now? Our son was going to be our jackpot. Two casino workers were having a jackpot baby. Of course we had no idea that he had other plans and decided that being a Father's Day present was better than being a jackpot. Okay so you're probably not laughing, and most likely didn't even crack a smile but to us it was funny. More on the Father's Day joke later.

So back to my original train of thought, my son's original due date was yesterday and I can't help but feel a little sad, a lot guilty, and just depressed honestly. I love my son more than anything in this world and I love that he is happy and healthy, but it makes me sad that things didn't go quite like they were originally intended. When you first learn that you have a little human growing inside you, it's natural to imagine their birthday and how you think things will go. Maybe your labor is planned. You picked the date and you're being induced. Maybe you plan to ride out the pregnancy until baby is ready and debuts on their own. Either way you see it, you never imagine that your water will break at 32 weeks pregnant and you'll be confined to the hospital on bed rest with antibiotics being dripped into your veins every few hours. You never think of the two steroid shots (in your ass that burn like hell btw) you'll have to get 24 hours apart to help your baby's lungs develop faster in case they aren't developed enough. You definitely didn't plan for you and baby to be constantly monitored for two weeks straight until the doctors decide it's time to get baby out because there's a risk of infection. But that's the short and sweet of how my labor began.

Every nurse and every doctor that I saw during my near three week stay at the hospital repeatedly assured me that my water breaking eight weeks early was not my fault and there wasn't anything I did that caused it, and nothing I could have done to prevent it. But I guess it was the mother in me that developed an immense amount of guilt because of it. My poor baby was going through so much already and he hadn't even taken his first breath. The neonatologist that came to speak to us advised us that our son could be in the NICU for up to 6 weeks (up to his original due date) or less, but it depended on how he was doing once he was out. Obviously I was a wreck at that point and highly emotional and I couldn't help but cry into my husband's chest every time I thought about it. Even taking the tour of the NICU (which was an amazing facility with incredible nurses) made me tear up and cry so hard I didn't think I could do it. I kept thinking to myself that if only my body hadn't given up, if only my water hadn't broken so early our son wouldn't have to be in the NICU facing a number of challenges. He wouldn't have to be monitored and have a ton of tests done. He wouldn't have to live his first however many days/weeks in another part of the hospital away from me and away from his father. I heard the words every time the doctors said it wasn't my fault, but my heart felt otherwise. Even now as I look at my son sleeping (and farting) next to me in his bassinet as healthy as he could be, the guilt just tears at my heart. Today is the day we were supposed to be recovering together from delivery. Today is the day where all of our family was supposed to come by to meet the new addition. July 27th 2017, that was the day I was supposed to meet the man of my dreams, the love of my life. That's what I had spent seven months preparing myself for. Not for the emergency C-Section because I wouldn't dilate completely. Not hearing he was stuck and had swelling on his face and head. And definitely not the ten beyond agonizing days he spent in the NICU.

Every day I am grateful that my sons birth went as smoothly as it did and that there were no major complications. He came out at a healthy 6lbs 4oz and was 17.5in long. No respiratory issues, no other major problems. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a face that made my heart melt the second I saw it. I suppose over time the guilt may fade, but I doubt it will ever go away completely. Regardless, my son is here, he is healthy, he is beautiful, and he is loved.