Going Home

My most memorable “going home” was bittersweet. I tried to put on a smiling face. I was happy, yet I wasn’t. I was excited to finally get home and see my children. Get on with life. Yet I wasn’t.

The sun was shining and it was incredible outside. That alone should have made me euphoric since I had only been outside for a total of 5 minutes in 2 1/2 months, yet I was still sad. The world seemed incredibly large after spending so much time in an 12X20 room. As we “jolted” along in the car my insides physically felt like they were being pulled out. After all that I had been through to get my babies, it didn’t seem right that I had just left them.

When we passed the downtown village and I heard Christmas music playing I started to cry. The music reminded me that I had spent a whole season in the hospital. I had been gone from my children and husband for 10 weeks, and as the long awaited reunion neared, I was coming home hunched over, split open and with empty arms. I had nothing to offer. I couldn’t lift my children, my physical interaction with them had to limited, I was in pain, and I wasn’t bringing their brothers home with me.

But that isn’t entirely true. I actually had a lot of offer. I had open arms and a heart full of love. And I had stories of the babies in the neonatal intensive care unit. I felt gratitude when I saw my healthy children playing and I walked in the house and saw it full of people and flowers to welcome me. I felt incredibly blessed to have my husband help me over the threshold and know that through it all, he was my rock, that I had come home.

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