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"The first time I saw my son, he was engulfed in wires and tubes, sequestered from the world in an Isolette in the neonatal intensive care unit. His was one of several lined up against the wall&amp;amp;#8212;they looked like little coffins. William wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t moving; I hoped he would respond to my hand, but I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t even think of where I might be able to touch him, not something attached to a machine. The little bit of his skin that I could see was transparent and reddish purple. He looked so sick. All I could think was, I&amp;amp;#8217;m so sorry that I did this to you. I was only 27 weeks pregnant when William was born; that&amp;amp;#8217;s more than three months too early. While most babies are still cocooned in the womb developing their lungs and learning basic survival reflexes at that stage, my son was fighting for his life in the NICU. I&amp;amp;#8217;d felt pretty good for most of my pregnancy, so for Thanksgiving, I thought it would be no problem to cook a huge dinner for nine guests. The following day I spent hours reaching, bending and lifting as I put up Christmas decorations. Mark, my husband, told me to slow down and take it easy&amp;amp;#8212;he promised to take care of everything. But I was your typical 38-year-old superwoman, and I believed I was the only one who could make things look perfect. Two days later as Mark, our 15-month-old daughter, Ella, and I were in church for Sunday service, I felt fluid streaming out of me. We left in the middle of the sermon and rushed home, certain my water had broken. Mark called the doctor, and we made our way to Brigham and Women&amp;amp;#8217;s Hospital in Boston. As I was rolled onto the labor and delivery floor, I could feel stabbing contractions. You can&amp;amp;#8217;t have a baby at six months, I told myself. You can&amp;amp;#8217;t do this. I held my belly and said, &amp;amp;#8220;Stay in there, don&amp;amp;#8217;t come out.&amp;amp;#8221; The doctors tried to halt my labor and injected steroids into my IV to speed the development of my son&amp;amp;#8217;s lungs. But on Wednesday my temperature rose and the contractions were more intense. My doctor said we had to deliver. I was terrified as they wheeled me into the OR for a C-section; two and a half hours later, still groggy from anesthesia, I was pushed in on a gurney to see William in the NICU. He weighed just 2 pounds, 13 ounces. His weight was something I began to obsess over. I would pump breast milk and bring it to the hospital every day, believing it would help him gain a single gram, then an ounce, then maybe a pound. I was convinced this was the least I could do since I hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t been able to give him the full nine months he deserved in my womb. I&amp;amp;#8217;d arrive at the hospital each day hunched over in pain; I assumed it was part of the healing process from the C-section. Finally, one of William&amp;amp;#8217;s nurses told me I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t look well, picked up the phone and called my doctor. It turned out I had an incision infection&amp;amp;#8212;I&amp;amp;#8217;d been so focused on William, I hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t even realized how sick I was. I needed two weeks of antibiotics, but I hesitated to take them&amp;amp;#8212;even though my doctor told me otherwise, I worried that the drug would deplete my breast milk and that would be one more way I&amp;amp;#8217;d fail William. Then a nurse told me, &amp;amp;#8220;If you don&amp;amp;#8217;t take care of yourself, you can&amp;amp;#8217;t take care of your baby.&amp;amp;#8221; Her message struck me; I finally stayed home from the hospital one day and rested. Even so, the guilt must have been visible on my face. The nurses in the NICU, my obstetrician, William&amp;amp;#8217;s neonatologist and his pediatrician all told me I&amp;amp;#8217;d done nothing to cause William&amp;amp;#8217;s early birth. I had some of the best doctors in the country look me in the eye and say, &amp;amp;#8220;This is not your fault, you did everything right.&amp;amp;#8221; I heard the statistics: In nearly half of all premature births, the cause is unknown. I tried to take it all in, yet I still wondered, Had I overdone it when I put up the Christmas decorations? Had I gotten enough rest? There wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t a day in the NICU that I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t have those thoughts. And as I watched the other mothers, I saw how anxiety and guilt tortured us all. After 11 weeks, we were able to bring William home. There was a baby girl in the NICU who was born before William, and she was there when we were leaving. I walked over to her mother and said, &amp;amp;#8220;This day will happen for you, too, and I hope it comes soon.&amp;amp;#8221; As I spoke to her, it struck me that I would never judge her for her baby&amp;amp;#8217;s early birth, so why was I still blaming myself? I realized I had to start moving on. I will always wonder if I did too much that holiday weekend, but I&amp;amp;#8217;ve come to accept&amp;amp;#8212;in my mind, if not in my heart&amp;amp;#8212;that William&amp;amp;#8217;s early birth wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t my fault. I know my son needs me to cheer on his every milestone, not be mired in my own guilt. Today he scoots around and giggles like any seven-month-old, the age he&amp;amp;#8217;d be if he&amp;amp;#8217;d arrived on his real due date. His first traumatic months continue to cast a shadow on many things&amp;amp;#8212; I hold my breath at every pediatrician&amp;amp;#8217;s appointment and constantly worry about him eating enough. It&amp;amp;#8217;s a harrowing experience to endure, and I hope telling my story will help other mothers cope&amp;amp;#8212;then something good can come out of what happened to William. He&amp;amp;#8217;s a strong little guy. Maybe that&amp;amp;#8217;s because of everything he went through, or maybe he learned a teeny bit of it from me."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.glamour.com/sex-love-life/2007/01/jane-clayson-johnson-premature-birth/2>