Today he turned two. I can’t hardly look at him on his day without bawling. My heart is so heavy. Heavy with thankfulness, gratitude and happiness. Without God’s love and mercy for us — for him, we would not be here today. Happy. Celebrating. For you and your strength, little love, we are thankful.
He is just so, so cool. He is amazing. He is so funny, so sweet, so bashful and so smart. He makes our world spin and I cannot believe two full years have come between now and the worst time in our lives.
We had a little gathering of wonderful friends for barbecue, cupcakes and a few presents. He was so happy. He mostly ignored bashfully all the attention. He loved his huge Mickey Mouse cake. Big sis helped blow out his candles and between giggles he stuffed his mouth full, with a fork of course. His friends, Jordyn, Kael, Kellan, Ryan and Addi helped him with his gifts (newborn Isaac slept through the fun)!
Earlier in the day we gave Landon his new birthday bike. Oh, was he totally stoked! He pushed that little bike around for hours!
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This winter I have vowed to start and finish your first-year handmade scrapbook and for that I write (re-write in a sense) your birth story.
The day before your birth day we drove to Great Falls to visit Dr. Key. Something we had done countless times over the past few weeks. With ultrasound (and often stress-tests) we checked on you. We were checking on you, little man. Checking to make sure you were still tolerating everything that was going on inside of you. Your liver was huge and your heart a little small. The fluid inside of you was making your liver and heart work extra hard. Your tiny body was under so much stress. With every week that passed, however, other parts of you grew, and got stronger. Those 6 or so extra weeks that you stayed strong inside mama made all the difference in your story.
This trip to Great Falls, however, was different. It was different because since our initial visit with Dr. Key, the visit at 24 weeks — when your condition was diagnosed, when our lives came to a screaming halt and when he said you should be delivered in the next day or two — you improved a little every visit. This time, however, Dr. Key was seeing right-sided heart failure. Your heart could no longer do the work necessary to keep you alive. He predicted this day would come and it was time. It was time to bring you into this world. With a deep breathe, a deep sigh of terror, we drove back to Helena, packed what we needed and in less than an hour we were on the road to Missoula. You would be born in Missoula. Mama, Daddy, and Addison were born there. Our family and friends – our support system – was there and although we credit in a big part, Dr. Key, for saving your life, we wanted you to be born in the Missoula NICU.
So we drove straight to the NICU parking lot. Papa was there to pick up and care for Addi. She was terrified to say goodbye to us. She knew you were sick and she was very worried. Her little self could in no way truly understand what was happening. She knew brother was going to be born and for some reason everyone around her wasn’t smiling.
Daddy and I waddled, slowly, into the hospital. We didn’t want to go in. I hoped that if we lingered long enough we would wake up. We feared the worst. We didn’t really want to know the truth. You would be born … and then what?
Mommy had carried you for just under 30 weeks. You should have remained snuggled in your pouch for two and a half more months. Nothing we wished for now would change where we were. We made the best decisions for you that we could. And we wanted so bad for you to be okay, and this was your only shot. Being born now was the only way to save your life.
Our Missoula OBGYN agreed with Dr. Key, after seeing you in ultrasound, that the only thing they could do was deliver you and see what happened. This night before you were born was a living nightmare. Daddy slept a bit at mama’s side in a sticky, plastic chair. I uncomfortably sat upright cradling you in my belly for the last time. Nurses came and went constantly. Monitors beeped and alarmed. I was given several shots of medicine to boost your lung development. Tears dripped onto my Landon-shelf for most of the night. I couldn’t feel you move. You had gone silent. You were so sick, you didn’t even wiggle to let me know you were there and okay. The monitor’s constant sound let me know your heart was still beating, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel you. I remember giving my belly a little nudge trying to encourage you to move. I didn’t sleep at all. If these were my final hours with you I wasn’t about to sleep through them.
Mama was prepped for a Caesarean-section surgery the following morning, early. Before walking to the surgery room the neonatologist had a private conversation with just Daddy and I. These words will forever be burned into my memory, “He has less than a 3% chance of living through his first hours. Please, don’t expect much.” She left and I collapsed one more time into Daddy’s arms and then I was off. I laid on the table, so scared, so vulnerable. I made sure my nurse tested that I was numb. In all that you were going through, I didn’t want to feel you being taken from me.
And then in an instant we were separated from each other. There was nothing else my body could do for you. You made the tiniest attempt to cry, a squeak and then you were intibated, stuck with an IV, set into a warmer and quickly wheeled away to the NICU. I still have nightmares thinking about what you had to go through, the terror, the pain. As you left I saw your limp body and lifeless-looking face. Small, but not so tiny. Your face and abdomen was swollen, but you looked like a baby, my baby. I had no idea who you were with or where you were. I had no idea about anything. Terror. That is the only word I can use to describe it all.
You were gone. I was, for the first time in many months, alone. I was sewed up and taken to recovery. Daddy stayed with me until I told him to go be with you. He came back in tears. I am sure he was given the gravest of news. And seeing you must have been so hard on him. But you were alive, barely, but you were alive.
I remember laying in recovery having the oddest conversations with the nurses and our friend, Aleta. Odd because they were normal. I cried off and on, but for the most part I was numb, emotionally numb. I think at that point I had reached my limit. In an attempt of self preservation my body temporarily shut down and I stopped feeling.
You were born at 9:48 AM and at 3:30 PM I was able to see you. Those hours we were apart I slept, cried and pumped my breast milk. I sat in a wheel-chair at your bedside. I had to reach up over the plastic bedside to touch your tiny fist with the tip of my finger. I was afraid to touch you, but it took all of my strength not to stand, pick you up and hold you against me where you belonged. I was mad at myself for crying. Mad because the tears were fogging my view of you. I was afraid to take my eyes off of you. And I was mad because you were the one laying there. I was fine, you were the one enduring all of that. You were medicated with pain medicine to ease your pain and tranquilizers to make you stay calm. You didn’t move at all. The machine that was breathing for you inflated your chest. Your eyes were swollen shut. Your arms and legs were so small and skinny. Your belly was huge. Your head was so big and so round with fluid.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. So many cords and wires. Monitors and tubes. Under all of that was you. My Landon. I had no clue what to expect from a NICU. I was in shock. It was like having an out-of-body experience. I could see myself there, but it wasn’t really happening. Nurses stayed close. Every second of that first day was like an eternity. Many things changed those first hours. So many obstacles you overcame those first hours. Things changed and happened in your body. Medicine did it’s job. Pump-like mechanisms worked to clear off all that fluid. Machines took the stress off of your lungs so your energy wouldn’t be used for breathing. Your heart was getting better. Getting better at an intensely fast rate. Things I don’t even know or fully understand were happening. All I heard was you were okay, for now. The doctor’s and nurses really could not explain it all. You were not out of the woods by any means, but you were stable.
Other than staring at your face, the rest of your birth day is a blur for me. I was there when later that day Daddy took Addison to meet you. She cried as she placed the pink bunny she got for you in your bed. She explained that the bunny would keep you safe and let you know that she was your big sister and she loved you. She slightly held your hand and whispered, “I love you brother.” Other family and friends surrounded us in the hospital, many were accompanied in to see you in your first hours.
To everyone’s surprise Mr. Moon survived his first hours, his first day — you survived your birth day. They didn’t really know what they did right! They were shocked every hour you remained strong. And with that day behind us, our six and a half week stay in the NICU began. On September 1st we brought our little miracle home and life was so sweet.
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Happy birthday my sweet boy. You make mama so happy and I cannot imagine my life without you. I love you and I look forward to all your birthdays to come.
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