My birth story is a sad and scary one.  I had no trouble getting pregnant, both times conceiving in less than 2 months.  But keeping a fetus alive, proved to be a nearly impossible task for me.  I had horrible morning sickness and fatigue with my daughter.  They overshadowed the joy I felt expecting a new baby and left me feeling extremely guilty for not enjoying her more during her albeit brief life when I delivered her, already deceased, at 18 weeks gestation.  I’ve never known such darkness in my life.  Nothing brought me comfort.  

Six weeks after delivering her, my second round of test results were back with an almost certain cause for the late miscarriage, a septate uterus, which had apparently corrected itself according to my MRI.  So my perinatologist and OB/GYN gave me the all-clear to attempt another pregnancy and assured me I would not experience the same issues or be put on bed rest.  (I had asked about the bed rest because a close friend had spent several months bed ridden with her first child.)  I was desperate to put the bad feelings behind me.  

We started trying that night.  I went back to work from maternity leave the following day.

Nineteen days later, exactly two months after learning my daughter was no longer alive inside me, I tested positive for a second pregnancy.  In sharp contrast to my first pregnancy, I was terrified rather than elated.  Were we ready?  How could I love another baby as much as I loved my daughter?  What if this one died too?  You can’t replace a baby.

But I was happy to have a second chance.  This time, I’d be a better mom. 

Two weeks later, I hemorrhaged.

The on-call doctor didn’t seem to care that I was bleeding and pregnant.  “This happens sometimes.  Most of the time it is implantation bleeding and does not cause a problem.  But if it is a miscarriage, there is nothing we can do about it,” she told me matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about a lost book or something.  I left her office feeling helpless.  But she had prescribed pelvic rest, and that I could control.  So I did my best to take it easy and wait for the bleeding to stop.

When I followed up with my OB at my dating ultrasound the following week, she reiterated the on-call doctor’s diagnosis and recommendation and said to call if it happened again.  It did the next day-- a week after the first time-- and again a few days later.  No doctor seemed to care.  My perinatologist agreed with both OBs at our scheduled meeting a week later, after all, I was only 7 weeks pregnant and miscarriages are common around that time.  Three days later, it was like someone had turned the faucet on…I bled for an hour, saturating pad after pad.  The phone nurse seemed very nonchalant about the bleeding when I called around 10:30 PM and asked me to make an ultrasound appointment in the morning.  When I arrived, they rushed me to the perinatologist’s office for the ultrasound, after which I was given the bad news: I had a subchorianic hemmhorage, and I would be on strict bed rest from the time I arrived home until it healed, which in most cases takes about 1-2 months time.

It didn’t heal. 

At 13 weeks, I had been hemorrhaging less often than in my early weeks of bed rest, so I was allowed to modify my bed rest to take the stairs a couple times per day and take a reasonable shower.  (On strict bed rest, I got 5 minutes, which isn’t really long enough to do anything other than wash my long hair.)  That Wednesday, I had the worst pain yet, coming and going and squeezing my torso with immense strength.  All I could do was scream from the pain.  I called the OB because surely something was different.  My husband rushed me to the clinic for an emergency ultrasound.  The technician was doing regular clinic hours that day, thank goodness, but she was my high risk ultrasound technician usually.  She was surprised to see me and even more surprised by the shrieking I was doing.  (They wouldn’t even let me sit in the lobby because I was scaring the other patients!)  She had a nurse run to get the on-call doctor shortly after beginning the exam.  

This could not be good.

The doctor did a quick pelvic exam upon arrival to the small, dim room.  All the healthcare professionals stepped out of the room together afterward.  My husband, our unborn baby, and I were alone in the very scary ultrasound room—the same room that had brought us happiness just seven weeks earlier at our dating ultrasound.  When they returned, the OB said the words etched in my memory, “Your placenta has abrupted.  Your uterus is as hard as a rock.  You will not be pregnant by the morning.  I’m scheduling a D&C for tomorrow.”

“Like hell you are!”  I screamed, “His heartbeat is 156!  And I’m far enough I can labor through it, so that is what I’m going to do.  This is NOT my first miscarriage!” 

“If we allow that, you will most likely bleed to death.”

“Well then, I guess I’m going to bleed to death because you’re not taking my baby!” 

“We’re not going to let that happen.”  And the doctor excused himself to give us some privacy to deal with the emotions.  At that moment, I stopped caring about the pain.  A strange calm washed over me as I resigned to bring my baby to life or die trying.  We called our pastor.  And they admitted me to the hospital attached to the clinic.

A few hours later, full of IVs and resignation, I was approached by the same doctor.  He delivered the best news of the day, “There’s still hope.”  My contractions had stopped, the bleeding had eased, and the baby still had a strong heartbeat.  When pastor arrived, we shared the good news and prayed.  I was released the following day, prescribed strict bed rest until delivery.  

As the weeks progressed, the hemorrhages happened less frequently but more intensely.  I would awaken in a pool of my own blood some nights, so I began sleeping on a towel.  We rushed to the ER several times as I cramped violently and passed blood clots the size of my fist.  When this would happen, I typically vomited, became light-headed, and got to the floor as quickly as possible to avoid the dangerous fall that would come if I lost consciousness.  I cannot describe the terror I felt crawling back to the toilet, plastic cooking spoon in hand (don’t worry, this was its final purpose in our home) to scoop the clot out of the toilet and check for gray fetal tissue.  No one can ever get used to that. 

But things were looking up.  My perinatologist felt that by 19 weeks, I did not need to be seen every week anymore.  I dropped from weekly ultrasounds to every 3 weeks because baby was growing and developing nicely.  When Viability Day came at 24 weeks, we celebrated with sparkling grape juice.

The morning of my 25 week appointment, I awoke in the early morning as a large clot punched through my cervix.  “I’ll be admitted today,” I told my husband as I returned to bed.  So he made arrangements to take me to my afternoon ultrasound.  We were in the perinatologist’s office all of a minute after the ultrasound.  We had discussed this possibility before, so all he had to do was reiterate what was happening.

My hospital room was clinical and lonely, but it was a single room, something I’m eternally grateful for.  I know that I could not have handled a happy nursing mother bedding next to me; I could barely handle hearing the healthy babies cry in the hallway.  We had a lovely nurse at check-in who made a deal with me, “As long as you stay pregnant, you get cheesecake.”  I was once again hooked up to IVs and monitors, and I received a round of steroid shots preparing for imminent delivery in the next few days. 

Three weeks later, I was still pregnant and still in my hospital room, the closest room to the OR.  By now, I had decorated and befriended many members of the hospital staff.  A “chain of love” in green, cream, and pink (the only colors available on the craft cart for some reason) festooned my walls, one link per day of bed rest so far and one link for each day I hoped to stay pregnant.  I looked forward to my hot lunches, since I’d spent most of the last few months eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cereal.  Don’t get me wrong, I had plenty of days I was angry and did not want to talk to the staff or visitors, but I did my best to stay positive.  The pet therapy program helped a lot.  I would get random visits from various dogs during my stay.  But I kept holding out to meet the pony—that’s right, I said pony! 

Now at 28 weeks, I’d been complaining that the blood didn’t seem like blood anymore, too clear and too constantly gushy.  So my nurse did a test for my water being broken.  (I’d battled low fluid for a long time, so no one was concerned before this.)  Barely a minute into the test, which is supposed to take several, she confirmed that I was leaking amniotic fluid pretty heavily.  So I got more IVs, more steroids, and more scared.

Again, I avoided having the baby when everyone thought I would.  After a week, my perinatologist let me have the IV ports out again until necessary and gave me the best news I’d had in a while, “If you are still pregnant a week after your water breaks without infection, there is a good chance you can make it to 34 weeks.  That is as far as I will let you go, though because at that point the potential detriment will outweigh the potential good of staying pregnant.”  So we continued.

Three weeks later, my husband brought me Olive Garden takeout to celebrate our second anniversary.  I turned down my hospital dinner, including the cheesecake that was to be my dessert.  That night, I went to sleep with some nasty indigestion and a loving husband kissing me goodnight and heading home.

In the morning, I still had the indigestion when I woke up, so I waddled to the bathroom.  That brought me no relief, so I called the nurse.  It was early, about 2 hours before shift change, so she got there fairly quickly.  “Let’s put you on the monitor,” she suggested.  After about an hour, she came back to check on me and said she wasn’t concerned because she didn’t see any contractions.  But I felt worse, so I asked if the on-call OB could stop by.  He had just finished a delivery, so he came in a little while later.  I stayed on the monitor while I waited. 

He had come to be one of my favorite on-calls because on weekends, he would sometimes bring in his terrier, a spunky little pooch with a skull-and-cross-bones scarf.  I think the dog was as excited to see me as I was him.  He did not have his dog with him that day, though; it was a Tuesday.  He put his hand on my belly and watched the monitor.  Soon I was crying from the pain; then it eased.  Again crying, then eased.  “You are having contractions,” he said, “I don’t know why they are not registering on the monitor.”

“Am I in labor, then?”  I asked.  I had been texting my husband since I woke with pain, and I needed to text him soon if I was in labor because otherwise he would leave for work.

“It’s almost shift change.  I’ll let the next on-call check for labor.  He should be here in a few minutes.”

I texted my husband who had already taken off work because he was so concerned by my messages.  He was there before the next OB arrived.  Sure enough, when the next OB did a pelvic exam, I was 4 cm dilated and 90% effaced.  “You’re in labor,” he said.

“Give me some drugs,” I said, “I’m having a cesarean because baby is breech and want to be in as little pain as possible.”

He made me wait while he got an ultrasound machine to double-check baby’s position.  Yes, baby was still frank breech, as if to stop my body’s numerous attempts to end the pregnancy early.

Soon, I was shaved, prepped with IV ports, and briefed on what would happen in surgery.  My OB met us in the OR.  I was grateful for the release from my bed prison, despite my concerns for my baby’s health and well-being as a 31 week preemie.  The surgery went quickly.  My husband almost didn’t make it into the room in time for the actual birth.

My son, Tony’s cries were the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard!  Many preemies don’t cry right away because their lungs aren’t fully developed, so I was a little surprised and extremely grateful he came out crying.  His weren’t fully developed either, but the steroid shots helped to mature them as much as possible.  “Tony, be brave!  I need you to be brave!  I love you!” I called to him.  He was attended to by a team of neonatal specialists who showed him to me momentarily before whisking him away to the NICU while my doctors stitched me up and sent me to post-op for a few hours. 

Waiting to see him was hard.  My husband followed him to the NICU and took some pictures until the NICU staff asked him to leave the room while they intubated the baby.  He came back to visit me and show me pictures, answering all my questions about how he looked and smelled as well as what was happening down the hall in the NICU.  Tony weighted a whopping 3 lbs. 11 oz. and was just shy of 16 inches long.  I did not get to visit him for an eternity—ok, a couple of hours of post-op—and I when I did, I was wheeled to the NICU still in my bed as the epidural wore off.  He was beautiful!  And he knew my touch.

I could only stay with him for a short time because he needed his sleep, and I needed to pump.  While I was in between visits with Anthony, the pony came for pet therapy, as if she’d waited to meet me, so she could celebrate with me. 

Having a baby in the NICU was tough.  After 6 months of bed rest, my muscles had atrophied.  Any mother who’s had a cesarean can attest that the first few days are full of intense pain at the surgery site, but I could barely walk 100 feet before the surgery.  My nurses encouraged me to walk my wheelchair down to the NICU to regain strength.  I would walk as far as I could and get a push the rest of the way.

I held Tony for the first time on his third day of life.  He was only on the ventilator for 2 days, which was the main reason we were not able to hold him the first 2 days.  Holding him was incredible!  But I cramped up really badly from the oxytocin release and had to stop after only about 15 minutes.  My husband held him that night.

Over the next six weeks, we had our share of ups and downs but mostly positives.  We tried breastfeeding around two weeks old (33 weeks gestational age), which was a mix of emotions.  Tony knew exactly where his mouth should go, I’ll always remember the sweet look on his face as he looked up at me, mouth agape, as if to say, “I’ve got my mouth in the right spot; where’s my milk?”  Alas, he just could not get enough suction.  We had some help from nurses and lactation consultants, but he just did not get the hang of it.  After about 2 weeks of trying, we decided to try a bottle so that we could take him home when he got the hang of eating.  He did much better with the synthetic nipple, though he was able to suckle my breast for a few minutes before we left the NICU.  He did not successfully nurse without a nipple shield until he was 3.5 months old (1.5 months adjusted age).

He was put on CPAP after the ventilator for a few days before going to a nasal cannula that stayed until he was 6 months old (4 months adjusted age).  He hated the tubes attached to his face and would try to pull them off.  He did this until the cannula came off.  I hated having to put it on him.

He spent about two days under the phototherapy lights because his bilirubin levels were too high.  He had an orangey color.  And he wore a little eye mask that made him look like a movie star tanning while he was under the light.  He was in an isolette at the time to reduce the amount of stimuli around him to help him sleep.

He had lots of tests to make sure he was healthy.  He had ultrasounds on his head to check for bleeding; thank God there was none!  Several times, the respiratory therapists tried to take him off oxygen, but his blood oxygen levels always dropped.  And he had a chest ultrasound because of a heart murmur.  His hearing test came back normal, and he passed his car seat test.

Near the end of his NICU stay, he had an eye exam, which was horrible!  I was asked to leave the room while the ophthalmologist did the exam because he cried so much.  When I came back, Tony was limp and unresponsive.  He had had his circumcision and the chest ultrasound that day as well.  The neonatal team tried to assure me he was just tired, but he was not acting like he normally did, even tired.  This is probably my worst memory of the NICU.  I picked him up and held him while the nurse jabbered at me about who knows what.  I was angry that he was so unresponsive—what had they done to my sweet little boy?!  “Please leave us,” I implored the nurse.  I held him close and kissed him.  When the doctors came in, I was still pretty upset.  They had scheduled too much for my little guy.  And he would not eat, which was our last big hurdle before he came home.  I did not want this to set him back.  His feeding tube had been removed, and now they were threatening to replace it for a few days.  I was devastated and angry, so I told the doctors why I was upset.  They said that they’d do what they could to make sure Tony could come home as soon as possible.  And the home health nurse brought us our oxygen concentrator and taught us how to use it and our apnea monitor.

The next day, we were able to room in with Tony.  It was a long night, since the apnea monitor we had received turned out to be faulty and false-alarmed numerous times throughout the night.  Within a few hours, we had to disconnect it and use a hospital monitor because the alarms were so frequent.  My husband and I were so scared every time.  But otherwise, the room-in went well, and we received a new monitor the next morning. 

We stayed until early afternoon that day, a Saturday in mid-August.  We filled out our paperwork, said farewell to the nurses, doctor, and other staff, and packed up all the stuff we got to take home.  It was emotional taking him home for the first time.  We were happy to have him close to us but very scared to bring him home in less than perfect health.  The first night, no one really slept in our house.  We were too nervous, and Tony was in the newborn phase, waking to eat every few hours.  But we eventually found our groove and learned how to care for him calmly and rationally. 

As a one year old, he is still behind on some things developmentally, but he is happy and well-adjusted.  He pulls himself to standing, communicates his needs and wants, and loves to watch the monkeys at the zoo.  He even blows raspberries on my legs, like I do to his belly.  This sends us both into fits of laughter.  And I don’t know that I would change our story as awful as the memories are because I know I’d appreciate him very differently without all the difficulty in getting him here.  Our chain of love now bedecks his bedroom, a daily reminder of how far we’ve come.

"La la love plus one."

I had a little possum on a Saturday night, and this is how his story goes…

My Birth Story – 26 March, 2011 – 9:24 p.m.

I was running late for work, but then I’m always late – or running. It was a beautiful afternoon, so my trusty fruit and vegetable cart man was out. I bought three bananas, two oranges, and a bag of baby carrots. Then, I ran to get my coffee. “What kind of donut would your baby like?” asked Elda, my sweetheart of a coffee-lady. “What?” I didn’t hear; she has a lovely, but thick accent. “Your baby. I want to give you a donut today because you are so nice, always nice customer to us.” That made me glow. Not the offer of a donut, but her constant kindness for as long as I’ve been going there. Sometimes she’s the last cheerful person I see on a Saturday, because Saturdays at The Mex are the most difficult night. “The pink one,” I answered. Yes, donut, sugar. Sugar and fruit, my two favorite food groups!

However, that isn’t how my day had begun…

Earlier that morning I’d had a dream that I was about to go…as in, wet myself. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom as fast as I could! Grr. That Tristan! He’d been sitting on my bladder since day one; he must have shifted onto it even further. I felt insecure about my new problem with incontinence, but I’d read that was normal so I wasn’t very surprised. I got ready for work just as I would any other Saturday. Servers are never allowed to call out sick – not even when they are pregnant and/or incontinent.

Once I clocked in I cleaned until I got my first table. I carried out tall stacks of side plates, filled the napkin bin, and wiped the counters. I visited with my friends and coworkers while I ate my sesame bagel with cream cheese, and sipped at my cinnamon iced coffee. The coffee-people knew my order by heart. I sipped the coffee slowly unsure if I’d be able to run to the bathroom in time; it felt like I needed to go every few minutes. Pretty soon my section was full and I didn’t have time to think about my situation other than feeling awkward about it. I was bouncing from table to table, table to bar, table to kitchen. Each week I grew significantly larger but I was determined to waitress every Saturday night for as long into my pregnancy as I could. I was 30 weeks and 6 days; two more months to go!

Whenever I had a moment while waiting for my drinks at the bar, I would lean over and let my baby-belly hang down. Gravity helped. Tristan had sat very low my entire pregnancy and it put tremendous pressure on my lower back. I had hoped to be one of those women whose endometriosis and ovarian cysts had been magically cured by pregnancy, but after a few pain-free months I discovered that wouldn’t be the case. They were monitoring two large cysts and I was under strict orders to come into the ER if the pain became unbearable because my ovary could flip with the growing baby.

How does one measure pain? I’m unsure. I have experienced pain nearly every day for two years. It ranges from subtle to so strong I need to grip something tightly to keep from collapsing. I hide behind a face that reveals nothing. How would I describe it, though? I know that it hurts, but I’m certain others experience pain far worse than mine. The first time I thought my appendix had burst, and it’s been said to be more painful than contractions and child birth.

My lower back was already aching and I found myself easily annoyed with customers. I wondered how many more Saturdays I could do this…I counted how many I had left and it didn’t sound hard. “I’ll just go as long as I can,” I coaxed myself.

Pretty soon it wasn’t just my back. There was pressure on my tailbone. “Something isn’t right,” I told my manager. “I’m not sure if I can finish.” “That’s fine, just let me know.” I took food out to a table and got more refills, printed out a check. The pressure was growing. “Something’s wrong. I can’t finish.” I went into the back office to sort myself out. It was busy and I would be giving up a large amount of money if I didn’t finish my shift. I tried to sit down, but I couldn’t. Instead I kneeled over the back of a chair.

My mind was swimming. Something wasn’t right, but what was wrong? I thought I’d call my OB’s answering service. Meanwhile Brandon showed up to start his shift at 7 o’clock. He came to find me. “What’s wrong, baby?” “My tailbone hurts.” Too literal. “Maybe you should go home and rest.” “No…I think I need an ambulance.” “Really??” The idea of sitting in a cab – or sitting at all – seemed impossible. “Will you get my things, please?”

911

“What’s your emergency?”

“I’m pregnant. I’m 30 weeks. Something doesn’t feel right. I think I need to go to the hospital.”

The dispatcher put me on the phone with someone who asked me more questions. Brandon held me up and helped me into the alley behind the restaurant where I wanted to wait. I was so embarrassed over calling an ambulance that I didn’t want to parade past my former-diners as they sipped their margaritas. We heard the siren, but nobody came. Several minutes went by and then a medic found me on foot.

Together she and Brandon helped get me to the ambulance.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling? Do they feel like contractions?”

Was she mad, I wondered? I wasn’t due until 29 May, 2011, and I’d certainly know if I were having contractions! More pain, more discomfort. The medics were nice and light-hearted. They said some things that made me smile, but my heart was starting to beat harder.

Contractions…is that what I was feeling, and if so, now what? What would happen?

I was put into a wheelchair. I had chosen to sit in the ambulance, but it was so uncomfortable. They were rolling me along as waves of discomfort took over my body; more pressure. People talking to me, signing papers. Now we were rushing, the wheelchair going faster. They told Brandon to wait and then I was through doors and into another room. Talking, telling me to undress, asking when my water broke? I said, no, no, I don’t know, I thought he was laying on my bladder. The nurse helped me get my pants off and…splash. Oh, I was so humiliated. Now it was obvious. “Yes, that’s your water. Lie down.” They checked me. “Six centimeters.” What? My heart was really racing now. Next room. “Now she’s fully.” People were rushing everywhere and I kept hearing “plus one, plus two, plus…” I was in shock.

And why couldn’t I put my head down? I’d be able to think better if I was comfortable. I reached up to discover a large black flower I’d put in my hair before work. My nails were the color of a rock band and my make-up was done enough to last and last. “Did you get ready before coming here?” my attendant asked in a hesitant voice. “No…work, I was working…”

They tried to put a needle in my arm to hook up an IV, but my veins are hard to find. She missed. She tried again on the other arm. Blood shot everywhere. “I’m a mess…” I remember murmuring. The contractions wouldn’t let me think straight. Someone told me they were going to put the baby’s heart on a monitor. They couldn’t find it for what felt like eternity. Finally! Thump, thump…along came a contraction, then, thump……………thump……………the heart rate slowed and nearly disappeared. It sounded like my body was killing the baby! This couldn’t be real, but a woman came down to my eye level and said, “I need you to understand something. You’re going to have your baby now – there’s nothing we can do to stop this, do you understand? We’re going to take you into the OR so you’ll be closer to where your baby needs to go – there won’t be time for you to see him. They need to take him right away.” I nodded. “Someone get dad.”

Brandon appeared, and put on scrubs. “Dad, you can be in the room…” mumble, mumble. My bed was rolling to the OR. “Call my dad?” I asked Brandon. I realized nobody knew what was happening to me. I was scared. I wanted to e-mail my mom like every other night. I still couldn’t believe this was happening. I had two more months, and after a difficult first trimester I loved every minute of being pregnant.

“Do you know what you’re having?” They were trying to distract me. “Boy…” People everywhere, bright lights over me, Brandon in position behind me, so many people. I couldn’t see Brandon. Instructions given to me. There was a clock on the wall behind all the people. It was only 9 o’clock. They helped me slide to the edge of the table…a sheet was placed under me, a bucket on the floor. It was happening the same way I’d seen it when I was in the room for Julie’s labor and delivery.

“We need to get this baby out quickly.”

With each contraction Tristan’s heartbeat slowed and then I’d wait for it to start again. Terror had enveloped me. The best thing I could think to do was breathe and get through it. Breathe…it was a little after 9 now. Each contraction I pushed three times. The young girl who introduced herself as my nurse leaned over and told me not to push with my face. I was scared, though. If I didn’t push with my face, then I’d push with my body and he wasn’t ready yet.

I listened as his tiny heartbeat faded away…

Panic!

Breathe.
“I’m about to have another one.”

“Great, use it!”

I pushed so hard! Past three times, over and over telling myself his life depended on it…because it did. Nothing would change what was happening and if I got him out faster he’d have a better chance. Right? Push, push, I saw the clock ticking behind everyone. Brandon’s voice encouraged me. “You’re doing such a good job, honey.” He must be scared, too, I thought.

One final push 24 minutes past 9 o’clock and out our baby came. He just slid out. He felt long. Commotion down there and then he was off – surrounded by his medical team, body straight, back arched, long – so long. He looked like he was crowd surfing through a Pearl Jam video. He was alive. He left the room just as the tiniest voice I’ve ever heard let out a thin wail. Then the doors shut and I was left alone with those who had stayed behind for my afterbirth.

It took a long time to fix me up. Longer than it took to have Tristan.

They told Brandon he could come have a look at his son. I was being sewn up. I wondered what he would see.

He returned with a picture on his cell phone. “Here he is!” I looked. “I can’t see his face.”

I was overcome by waves of shock. Time went by slower than ever.

God couldn’t have kept Tristan safe through the fire, through losing the kittens, through our wedding, and the sad but fun days of staying on the Berzinsky’s living room floor – only to take him away from me – could he? Why? Whatever comes, it is His will, I thought. Throughout the aftermath of the fire I had been humbled over and over again. I sent God one hundred prayers. “Please keep him safe.”

I was rolled back to the normal delivery room. Philadelphia’s skyline lit up the window. I was rolled into the maternity ward and given a single room, tucked away from the noise of new mothers with “well babies”. Ours was unwell. Time passed and then they told us we could go see him. It was after midnight. I wanted to run to him. I was afraid. I was overjoyed and nervous to meet the tiny, but long human who’d come out of me. What would he look like? I’d dreamed of him so many times but hadn’t even seen his face in my dreams. Through a locked door. Directions. Please Wash Your Hands For Two Minutes, the sign said. We did, turning the water on and off with our knee. Around the corner. There.

There.

There in an incubator with a spotlight on him was our son.

Tristan.

He was facing away from us.

Held my breath. Walked closer.

Then I looked upon his face, and he was beautiful! “He’s so teeny,” I said, then remembered my own mother had called me teeny while she was pregnant. He weighed 3 pounds, 11 ounces and was 17.5 inches long. Every feature was perfect, but so teeny-tiny and there were so many cords attached to him. A mask kept me from seeing much of his face.

“You can touch him,” the nurse told me.

“What? We can?”

“Sure,” she smiled.

We opened the doors to his incubator and reached in. His skin was warm, soft, and delicate. His fingers closed around ours. The three of us held onto each other; my teeny family. Then Brandon said a prayer for all of us.

I didn’t expect this to be our story. I’m a creature of habit and routine, but I’m learning to expect the unexpected.

Tomorrow Tristan will be four weeks old. His gestational age will be 34 weeks and 6 days.

Tomorrow I will gaze upon Tristan and see his face with nothing attached to it for the first time in his life.

Thank you, Lord, for giving Brandon and me a teeny son who is a miracle. Thank you for keeping him safe. I pray that he will remember to breathe so that he may come home to us.

Update - Where is Tristan now?

Tristan spent 50 days in NICU, came home for two weeks, and then had to return to NICU for another 8 days due to serious bradycardia. He would have 10-15 events per day - a few of which he'd turn color and need stimulation. This was mostly a problem around feeding/sucking. He spent four [long] months on the apnea monitor, but has been off it for nearly three months now.

He is going on eight months old, 15 lbs, 9 oz, and over 24" long. Last week he learned how to get into the crawl position and is rocking and wiggling around! He has three teeth coming in and has started solids. We're doing baby-led weaning (BLW) and he sips water from something called a Doidy cup. I exclusively babywear. We bedshare. I am a stay at home mom.

He wears a lot of hats with ears, legwarmers, and baby boy bloomers.

Read more by Stephanie Heather at Urban Flowerpot