CLOSE TO MY HEART

Owen, two weeks old, 2001

There is nothing like watching helplessly while your child is in danger or pain. Compared to that, my heart attack was a breeze. Any mom knows what I mean: My kids? Never. Oh, just me? Bring it on.

My oldest son was born nine weeks premature as a result of HELLP syndrome, a very rare but serious complication of pregnancy for which there is no treatment. Baby must be born or both baby and mother will die. But all we knew then was that I was sick and Owen was going to be born. Right now. 
All 1 pound 13 ounces of him.

Owen on his 10th birthday, 2011

During those eight weeks in the NICU, we entered a universe we didn't even know existed, where you live and breathe and sleep by the monitors, your baby's weight, and your favorite nurse. You learn never to miss rounds; your baby's life depends on it. You buy clothes impossibly too large because it is comforting somehow. You stay at the hospital until midnight, then wake at 2 a.m. and then again at 4 a.m. to call the unit to see how he's doing. You feel completely alone as the world swirls by without you. Without him. And seemingly without end.

But we weren't alone, and more mothers and fathers and babies enter that parallel universe every day. Each year, more than half a million babies in the United States are born prematurely, an increase of 36 percent over the last 25 years. Today, 1 in 8 American babies are born too soon.

November is Prematurity Awareness Month, and today is the first-ever World Prematurity Day, observed by the March of Dimes along with organizations in Africa, Europe, and Australia. (Worldwide, an estimated 13 million babies are born preterm.) Follow these links to find out more about the March of Dimes' prematurity campaign and World Prematurity Day and how you can help. Then please pass it on. It's a cause close to my heart.