No sound compared.
He was here. Breathing. Moving. Crying.
It didn’t seem so long ago we were sitting at the doctor’s office listening to their doubts of his survival. Cradled in my hubby’s arm, I listened as they tried to prepare me. The doctor began explaining the risks and possible problems we might endure, ultimately expecting me to miscarry.
Fear gripped my heart while tears began to flow freely from my eyes. My mind replayed the doctor’s words—“low chance of survival”, “high risk”, “unlikely the baby would make it full term”.
For a while, I could not bring myself to mutter a single word. The idea that I would lose our baby absolutely terrified me. Placing my hands over my belly, I was not concerned about the gender of our baby. I just wanted us to have a healthy living baby. But I was scared. The ultrasound pictures and statistics from the doctor painted a very bleak picture with the chance of survival extremely small. All the facts just kept piling up.
In that moment, I decided that I would hear the facts, but my heart would stay rooted in my faith. Only I knew the intimate conversations with God and the words He has spoken to me. I would trust God and prepare for a miracle.
With each subsequent appointment, I entered the doctor’s offices at peace. In just four weeks, they had performed two ultrasounds expecting to see a baby in distress. To their amazement, an answer to my prayers, my baby had more than doubled in size.
He was a fighter.
He had a purpose.
He was determined to survive.
Within the first trimester, I was in and out of hospitals and emergency rooms. I began experiencing fainting spells at church, in my classroom, and at home. My body began rejecting food, my prenatal vitamins, even water. Soon, I became all too familiar with the inside of the toilet bowl and trashbags. Everywhere I went, my “just in case” bag was in tow. I was miserable. So much was left for my husband to juggle. Many times I would stare into the frightened eyes of my two sons, who struggled to understand what was happening to their mommy.
Our baby boy was still hanging in.
He began thriving and growing so much that the doctors started doubting my original due date. It seemed each time I visited the doctor, the due date constantly changed.
. . . until I was 27 weeks.
It was too early. At that moment, I was a little girl, wanting to hear my mother say that everything was going to be okay. I didn’t want to lose my baby. He was a part of me. A living, breathing, moving life within me. Closing my teary eyes, I thought about the words God had spoken to me—my baby would live.
Rushed to the ER, cradled in my husbands arms, I just could not put together any words. Again, none of the doctor’s expected him to make it if they could not stop my active labor. After placing his hands over by belly, I heard my husband began pray over him and speak to him.
Our little one seemed to understand. He calmed. The contractions slowed. After a couple of days, we were released to go home.
We entered week 29. There I was 1 ½ cm dilated and 25% effaced. Bed rest. To an active woman like myself, I didn’t know what do. We were scheduled to move to a new military base within the next couple of weeks and I wanted to help. There was so much to do and now this. Another visit to the hospital. My husband was doing so much that I began to feel like a burden. Yet, I was reminded that I had the important task—taking care of me to take care of our baby.
It came–week 31. We had only been at our new military base for a short time. This was supposed to be a simple checkup at the new hospital. Boy, was I wrong. Here I was again experiencing another preterm labor. I was 4 cm dilated and 50% effaced.
I wasn’t going anywhere. Doctors whispered to one another, nurses kept coming in and out of the room, my sister looked at me shrugging her shoulders, and my husband was at work. Not exactly an ideal situation for me. Quickly, I was transferred to a hospital that had a level 3 intensive care unit for babies. There I was admitted, blood drawn, and a doctor was on call. Then, just as suddenly as labor started, it passed. Now I was to stay in the hospital, under watch 24 hours. Waiting. Day by day, test by test, I would spend the next 4 weeks within the walls of my hospital room.
My baby boy seemed so determined to get out; while everyone else was doing all they could to keep him in. He was so active and alert. I was more than eager to see him—hold him.
“Be prepared . . .”
Again I heard the nurses speak words of doubt to me. Each day I would enter my prayer time, remembering God’s promises and cleansing myself of the doubt of those that surrounded me. Faithfully, I believed that God would perform a miracle. Even in the midst of their belief that our son would have to stay in the hospital, confined to an incubator or need oxygen, I still believed God would do more than they could even imagine.
Then, there was one.
A last minute change in our doctor. He stood there at the foot of my hospital bed and spoke words of faith. He stood in agreement with us, our baby would be fine. I knew this doctor was a part of God’s plan for our family.
Friday. The day began like all the others. Stretched out, I laid in the bed as I awaited the nurse to come and perform the stress test on my little one. I nibbled on snacks, but no movement. My usually active baby was barely moving. After an ultrasound, the nurse entered my room, face somber—I was prepared.
“We need to perform an emergency c-section.”
The words swirled in my head. Tests showed that his lungs weren’t fully developed. The ultrasound revealed he was slowly being entangled by the umbilical cord. There his body was– legs, stomach, and one of his arms were wrapped by the cord. He couldn’t move. After two natural child births, I was scared.
Sure I read the literature on epidurals and c-sections, but at that moment those words eluded me. They were going to cut me open. I have problems at the dentist, and now they want to open my abdomen! I knew there was no other way. Gripping the sides of the bed, I shook my head and let them prepare me.
I wanted to remember scripture. I wanted to take that moment to speak all the scriptures I read throughout the years, but all I could remember—My grace is sufficient. In that moment, I knew that I could rest and trust that God’s grace would be more than enough. In my weakness is His strength. He is my healer. My father. My hope.
Entering the room, with my husband holding my hand, they began. After what seemed like an eternity, my ears heard the best sound ever–cries. My baby was here.
He was one month early, but contrary to the doubts of others, he was completely healthy. Breathing normally, there was nothing to separate us from being able to hold him.
7 1/2 pounds.
Ten years later, this son of ours continues to be one of the four miracles of my life who call me mom. When I look into his face, I see God’s plan even when others didn’t believe. He is just one of the reminders in my life that God is and will always be God. The unexpected is a factor in life, but faith in Jesus Christ helps you to endure. When you know what God has spoken to you, that is what you hold to. So when days get hard, when I feel like I want to give up, when I am not sure about my next step—I look around me and I know God is with me.