It wasn't too long ago that my feet were trapped inside scratchy nonslip hospital socks. My third trimester belly protruding out of the gown and me choking at the air that I was too afraid to breathe. The air was thick, stagnated with fear. The tension was suffocating. Long, cautious breaths were all I could maintain. My back hurt from that hospital bed angle that is never quite right. No pillow, hospital or not, could support and comfort me now. I didn't sleep that night at all. I curled my frail body around my belly, hugging him through me just wishing he was in my arms safe and sound --pleading to God for mercy.
For weeks I was told at some point he'd be gone, but I never allowed their doubt to be my acceptance. Every few moments of every day for those 10 weeks I would pause, hold my breath and pray and wait to feel any sign that he was still moving within me.
That line was being walked. A line I hope to never teeter on again. That line between life and death. Elation and pain. Hope and devastation. A line I seemed to be walking alone, not really alone, but it was my body they were taking him from. It was my body that couldn't keep him alive any longer. It was my body that would bleed, and scar and it was me who crippled daily at the very thought of losing someone I knew and loved so deeply but hadn't yet met.
He was mine. From the very first possible moment I knew he existed. I took a pregnancy test and while in the shower I peeked at the little lines that would tell me I was to be a mother again; already knowing it would be positive, but I had to be sure. When I screamed out in excitement Dylan busted in thinking I was being assaulted. For 20 weeks I lived in the joy of dreaming of my baby, excited for who he would be, eager to watch his big sister grow into her new role and making plans for our new family of four.
My joy bubble was abruptly popped as I was being encouraged to abort him. I was made afraid by the list of problems he most certainly would have. They explained that if he lived the illness and the prematurely would render him tethered to a life of tubes and heavily medicated into a simulated existence. I promised to give him a chance, however small that chance might be, his mother would not take his chance to live away from him. He was already mine, he was made from me and whatever we would have to face, we would face it together.
He was a part of me and if he was meant to only be a flutter, he was my flutter and God, and I would rock him as only a mother and Father can do until he wasn't earthy alive anymore. He would be a part of me, and he would die a part of me.
She asked everyone in the room to leave. The people who's back had helped me carry the load of facing this horrific rollercoaster over the past 10 weeks. The people who would help revive me if he did die. What could she possibly say that the stagnant air didn't already know? Every breathe filled every vein with the reality. But they left as she directed. And we listened. She was to be his doctor. She was the one who would try to save his life. I'm sure the discussions between doctors dismal as they decided what our fate would be and whatever sliver of hope drives medical personal to give it their best shot each day, I'm sure was already waving. She, as gently as I think she could, stated, "You need to know the reality of what we are facing today. He only has a 3% chance of surviving his first hour." That's all I heard. That's all my brain and my heart could translate. Through tears and uncontrollable shivering from the bitter cold of fear, I was guided into a wheelchair and the process of eliminating his dying body from my womb began.
I wouldn't feel my water break, or my body open and tightened as I brought him earthside. I wouldn't hear him cry. I wouldn't be the first to see his face. He wouldn't be comforted by the familiarity of my breathe or the warmth of my milk. Everything was out of my hands. Literally everything. Every instinct that beats through every fiber to protect him had been relinquished to strangers. I know it's the disconnect that saves lives, but this wasn't any life, this was my baby and I needed them to love him as much as I already did.
A three percent chance to live through his first hour.
Two and a half months too early.
Less than 30% of his liver was working.
His heart was actively failing. Within hours it would stop beating.
So much fluid on his brain, heart, and liver his weight was of an full term baby.
He will have physical and learning disabilities. He will have a short life. He will be a medical and financial burden. He'll most likely be deaf. He may live his life from a wheelchair and constricted with breathing and feeding tubes.
He as born 10 weeks early. He weighed only 3 pounds. He spent 6 1/2 weeks in the NICU. He went home weeks before his acutal due date. He breast fed. He was strong and he was alive and thriving.
Thirteen years and 30 weeks alive. Thriving. Beautiful. Brillant. Perfect and hilarious. I often tell him he is not of this world, and he isn't. He is my walking miracle.
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