And suddenly, it was upon us. "You're how far along?" she asked, as she looked at my chart… "23 weeks and 6 days means we need to transfer you to a hospital with a higher level NICU… just in case."
Pardon my naiveté here, people, but what exactly are you saying? You are a doctor. I am in a cloud of emotion, numbness, denial, and ignorance. Please spell it out for me.
As they were preparing my ambulance transport, she explained that tomorrow I'd be 24 weeks, and that was a game changer. My baby would suddenly be considered viable. Required by law to be revived upon showing his face in this world. Today (23 and 6), however, not so much. If we wanted them to try to resuscitate him before 24 weeks, we would have to sign some kind of waiver/request/form.
My mind swirled with emotion and amazement. In the dark of night, in my first ambulance ride ever, I sat next to a stranger who was there to accompany me. I cried silently as we went over a bump and I thought I felt my water break. I called my poor husband, who had just gone home to try to get some sleep, and told him to high-tail it to Lankenau. Which he did. Which was a waste of a good night's sleep, b/c it turned out my water hadn't broken… it was just more bleeding. The contractions calmed down and we started the next day with little rest and even fewer answers. "You could still go full term, or you could go at any time. We just can't predict."
All day long, every time my baby kicked or moved around, or they monitored his perfectly steady heartrate, all I could think of was how happy he was currently. Blissfully ignorant to the cold, harsh outside world that potentially awaited him. And while everything in me wanted him to stay put, to remain happily kicking and unaware, growing and developing inside instead of outside, I couldn't wrap my mind around staying in that hospital bed for the next 1, 2, 3… 12-14 more weeks! I had a 16 month old at home who needed me! I had barely wrapped my mind around the fact that I was pregnant again, and that it was another boy! I certainly wasn't ready to meet him. It was too early. . . for all of us.
And yet, by that evening, it became apparent that regardless of how early it felt, it was the appointed time. 24 weeks… and one day.
Call me a pessimist, but in the time it took poor Dave to get BACK to the hospital that night (he'd just gone home again, to see Christian and to try to sleep), I went back and forth between amazement at the ultrasound that revealed a tiny foot in a little "balloon" dangling into the birth canal, and begging the doctor not to do a c-section -- mainly because I really thought my baby wasn't going to make it, and I selfishly didn't want to go home with a c-section and nothing to show for it. I didn't believe that one day truly could make that much of a difference in viability. I knew very little about micro-preemies (including that term), but I knew I'd never met a person that young.
It took me a long time to realize that everyone was being very intentional about saying that phrase-- doctors, nurses, anyone who looked at a chart… his or mine. "24 and 1" became his identity in a lot of ways. It was the "1" that constantly stood out. The "1" that seemed significant enough to mention, every single time. Apparently technology is that advanced, fetal development that well-studied, that exact-- that each day that baby has in the womb IS a vital day of development… especially once they cross that 24 week mark. Each 24 hour period marks the growth and expansion of the lungs, the maturing of air sacs, the production of surfactant, the strengthening of the heart, immune system, and even the skin. That was the first thing I noticed about him the next morning, upon beholding his perfection for the first time. His fragile, transluscent skin, slick and not quite fully formed yet, stuck full of leads and wires, which would leave lifelong scars within the first few hours of his birth.
His ear was torn, his neck was bruised, his kidneys weren't ready to work. His apgar had been ZERO, which means his entry into this world was as cold and harsh as I'd feared. His sweet and steady heartbeat was suddenly non-existant, his color was blue, and his lungs too immature to gasp for that first breath of life. He'd gotten stuck on his way out, the doctor having to cut my cervix to free him into this brave new world. And yet, being "24 and 1" was more promising than "23 and 6". . . because each day counts.
He'd been born at 11pm, just 1 hour before his father's birthday. I don't know what kind of time passed between the aftermath and getting assigned to a room… or when we drifted into sleep. We were wakened around 3 or 4 am by the Neonatalogist on call, a stranger sitting by my bedside, introducing herself in the dark, explaining concepts we wouldn't be able to fathom let alone remember in the groggy surreality of that day. All we remember was her saying something about levels of brain bleeds, and how we would have the opportunity, should those tests reveal higher levels of bleeding, to decide the fate of our child. He was currently stable, but we were immediately aware of the fact that we'd just boarded a roller coaster, whether we were ready or not. She was telling us to fasten our seatbelts.
Each day thereafter would hold its own ups and downs, hopes and fears, and fluctuating stats. We literally had no choice but to cast ALL of our anxiety at the feet of our child's Maker, our own Creator, and the One who had chosen the week, day and hour for our baby to enter the world. We knew he was in good hands medically. But we were consistently reminded by our changing circumstances that there was only ONE way to walk this out. In complete dependence and reliance upon our Sustainer… the Giver and Taker of life. Truly and practically trusting that whatever He ordained was right. We began to see that each day did count. Not only in the growth and maturing systems of our child, but in our faith journey. One day at a time took on new meaning. One breath at a time was more like it. Watching a machine breathe for your baby is humbling. Recognizing that it is ultimately God who is supplying YOUR every breath (and your child's) gives you perspective you've never had before. EVERY breath. Not only provided, but graciously given as a gift-- to make each day count.
We were suddenly aware of our own fragility when recognizing that we were just as dependent on the Sovereign One as was our 24 weeker. God had a specific plan for each of our days, planned out before the beginning of time, just as He had purposed each day of our baby's life-- whether it was to be a brief or lengthy journey. It was humbling. It was inspiring. It drove us to our knees, yet made our hearts soar with wings of faith like never before. We knew that no matter what the final outcome, we had been given the gift of EACH day of this trial-blessing, to trust our Father and give Him all the glory.
He led us to the name "Kyren David", and gave us vision for the legacy our child would leave, regardless of his stay on earth. We felt the prayers of thousands, and stood in awe of the support and encouragement that came from around the globe. It was as if this tiny 1 lb baby was uniting a whole army of prayer warriors, who joined us on our knees, and waited in the wings, watching to see how God would answer.
And day by day, hour by hour, His answers came. We are fully aware that they could've been very different, and are still daily amazed at His kindness. He knit him together, fearfully and wonderfully, before our eyes, one day at a time. He chose to protect his Beloved's brain from bleeds. 100%. He chose to heal the kidneys. He sustained and guarded those fragile little lungs, for 8 long weeks on several different ventilators. He protected and healed from infection. He provided excellence in medical care-- through wise doctors, skilled surgeons, and angelic nurses. He caused our little one to grow and thrive, and up and down his way to full term. He allowed him to nurse sooner than expected, and gave me the grace to persevere in pumping. He allowed him to be transferred the week of Thanksgiving to a closer hospital, where we could spend more time together, bonding and introducing him to friends and family. And 4 days before his due date, He allowed him to come home on nothing but breastmilk. No oxygen, no weight gainers, no meds. Just 6 lbs 9 oz of chubby normal newborn perfection.
Was every one of the 107 days in the hospital easy? No. But each day counted. Toward health, healing and wholeness. Toward a testimony of God's goodness, faithfulness, and LOVE. For us. For Kyren. And for the watching world.
And here we are -- 4 years later-- once again reminded of how dependent we are on the Lord. Today I have completed week 24 of this pregnancy. It's been a week of triumph. A week of fluctuating feelings. A week of 7 days, like any other, purposed to point us to the Giver of life-- the Healer, Sustainer, and All-knowing God of the universe, who stoops to show us His perfect plan unfolding, and reminds us we can trust Him, every single day. Who molds and fashions each day to count for eternity. Whether you're "24 weeks and 1 day", or 34 years along.
