This week we celebrated Boston's first birthday! (He loves cake, can you tell?) So I've spent a lot of time thinking of his birth. I’ve also spent a year mulling this post over. But it seemed I just couldn’t ever get it
written. Words can never fully describe
what we experienced at the moment of Boston’s birth and in the months after,
but I figured in honor of Boston’s one-year birthday, I would try my best.
On July 29, 2016 at 4:22 pm our sweet Boston Carl was born
peacefully and easily. I cried tears of
joy. Unfortunately, the hard part was just beginning. Unknown to us, he had somehow lost (or possibly never had) over half his
blood at birth, which prevented oxygen from circulating to his lungs and other
organs. After only 10-15 minutes, our
midwife let us know that he needed to be transferred to a hospital. Greg, the midwife, and Boston sped off toward
the hospital while her assistant stayed with me. I threw on some clothes, grabbed a drink, and
jumped into the car. All I remember
thinking on the way to the hospital was what I should have been doing. I should have been holding my sweet newborn,
nursing him for the first time, talking and laughing with my husband and the
midwife, seeing how much our new baby boy weighed. My favorite thing about having our babies at
home is those peaceful moments after birth, when the room is filled with light
and love and precious, newborn snuggles. I
texted a few people, asking for prayers, but I couldn’t really process what was
going on. We had no idea how serious
Boston’s condition was. I assumed he
just needed a little oxygen for a few hours, and then we’d come home. I
remember the same thought kept running in my head, over and over and over: I
shouldn’t be here.
We arrived at the hospital and practically ran in. Boston was in a room full of doctors and
nurses running around and a red light flashing over the door. As soon as I walked in, they told me they
were sending him to Riley Children’s Hospital in Indianapolis. I was honestly shocked, and I realized things were probably worse than I
had imagined. About this time, I started
to feel bad. I don’t know if you realize
this, but 20 minutes postpartum is not the time to run out the door frantic,
and then sit in a waiting room after barely eating for over 24 hours and being
in labor for almost 12 of them. My arms
were empty, my heart was aching, and the rest of me was woozy. They brought me something to eat, but that
didn’t help. I kept feeling worse and
worse until the next thing I knew I was being wheeled on a table into the next
emergency room while someone cut off my shirt.
I remember thinking, “Wow, I passed out.
So this is what passing out feels like.
I’ve never done that before. Don’t
they know I’m fine? Wait, that’s my nice
nursing tank. Why are they cutting
it? Where’s Greg? My baby is really sick. I. shouldn’t. be.
here.”
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| The many machines that kept Boston alive |
When Lifeline arrived, the paramedic on board came in to
give me some information about Boston’s condition. I remember her saying, “We don’t know if he’s
going to make it. He’s a fighter, I
think he will, but as a medical professional, I have to be honest.” Boston left the local hospital in a
helicopter close to 9 pm. When Greg and
I arrived at Riley, and we were finally able to go into our sweet baby’s room,
it was surreal. Seeing your baby kept
alive by at least 10 different machines that breathed for him, pumped him full
of medicine, helped him go to the bathroom, and a myriad of other things, it
takes your breath away. I could barely
find a piece of his bare skin to touch. The amazing night nurse patiently
explained what every tube, needle, cord, and beeping was for. We decided since it was already very late
that we would head home in order to see our other children and pack our stuff
for what was probably going to be an extended stay. Coming home to a house without your baby is
heartbreaking. His bassinet by our bed
was empty, all the diapers and clothes and general birthing stuff were unopened
and unused. I tried not to think about
it. I got up in the middle of the night
to pump, feeling the cold plastic against my skin instead of a warm baby. I remember thinking as I slipped into bed
that maybe I could finally sleep well for the first time in months, since I was
no longer pregnant and uncomfortable, but without that baby beside me that
thought brought me no comfort. All I
could think was:
I shouldn’t be here.
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| Boston after coming off everything but oxygen |
For the next 18 days we sat at the hospital. There were agonizing moments when we wondered
if we would ever bring him home and how we would tell our other children that they would never meet their long-awaited new brother, and then there were moments when we finally
got to breathe, to enjoy him, but always wondering “What will tomorrow bring?” His head was covered with monitors because of
his increased risk for seizures, then they were removed, then they were put
back on. Every time I could hold him it
was an acrobatic dance of pillows, and wires, and getting the intubation/oxygen
tubes just right so he was still breathing.
We watched him struggle to breathe after they removed his ventilator and
then be slowly weaned through every other form of oxygen machines available. Minutes, hours, days of just
watching monitors and your stomach lurching every time his heart rate or oxygen
level or blood pressure was abnormal.
Times when I stood by his bed, holding him while he screamed as they
drew his blood one more time, thinking I just couldn’t take it anymore. After the first week, we finally were
reassured that Boston would get better, it was just a matter of how long would
it take for him to get well enough to go home.
We started to relax a bit, get to know our incredible nurses, respiratory
therapists, and doctors, but life in the NICU isn’t easy, especially when you
have other children at home. We ran home
for a visit to see the other boys one evening, and Lincoln gave me one of his
blankets to keep with me at the hospital to keep me warm. I remember curling up in the awful bed in
Boston’s hospital room, snuggling that blanket and just wishing I could be home
with all my kids in one place. On a rare
moment at home with the kids, we wanted to rush back to the hospital to be with
Boston. Sitting in the hospital doing
absolutely nothing, we just wanted to be home with the other kids. No matter where we were, the thought was
always there:
I shouldn’t be here.
Life in the NICU with a newborn gives you lots of time to
think. So I began to wonder about the
company I was in. The great heroes of
the Bible who had to also think: I shouldn’t be here. I’m sure that’s what Abraham thought as he
walked Isaac up the hill with specific instructions to sacrifice his beloved
son. I’m sure Joseph thought that as he
sat rotting in prison after being sold by his brothers into slavery and then
falsely accused by his master’s wife. I’m
sure Moses had the same thought as he wandered around the desert of running
from his life of luxury in an Egyptian palace.
I’m sure Daniel cried that out to God as he sat all night surrounded by
hungry lions. I’m sure that Jesus, the
Creator of the Universe and all human life, had to know that as He suffered and died
on the cross, of all places on heaven and earth, that He was in the one place He
definitely should not have been. So, if
God had not spared some of the greatest men in the Bible, nor His own Son, from
pain and suffering and hardship, why should I be any different? Not only had He not spared these people from
hard times, but He’d also had very specific plans and goals through all of it,
and I knew that there was a plan and a goal for us as well.
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| After Boston came home |
I wish I could say now, a year later, that there was one
specific, amazing, Spiritual principal that I learned from our experience with
Boston, but I can’t say that. I can say
I learned several little things along the way.
God sees us and watches over us even when things do not happen the way
we want. He loves us so much, and we
were continually loved by Him, especially through His people during our whole
ordeal. I’ve learned to trust and lean
on Him more. Our kids are never safe
from this world. Not after 1 year, or 10
years, or even after they’re adults and have left our care. There is no guarantee that they’ll be safe
and sound, but God is our Rock through it all, even when tragedy strikes, even
in the little struggles of life, even in tiny moments that really aren’t
life-changing but feel so very desperate in that instant. I learned that the one place I didn’t really
want to be is usually the place God uses to grow, stretch, and refine me—that
usually the one place I don’t want to be is usually exactly where God wants me.
After 3 weeks in the NICU keeping Boston alive and well
enough to bring home, we spent the next 9 months trying to get him to drink
from a bottle and gain weight, and we feel we’ve finally gotten to spend the
last 3 months actually enjoying him and being a family of 7. He’s doing amazing, and aside from some small
developmental delays, you’d never know he had such a rough start. He’s the happiest baby we’ve ever had, bringing
us so much laughter and joy. Every
morning when I get Boston out of bed and every night when I snuggle him one
last time before laying him down, I thank God for letting us keep him and love
him and raise him. It makes me try
harder to love all our children more, to be a better parent, to raise them to love
and obey the Lord with all their heart.
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| Boston on his birthday |
The last few days, I can’t help but remember what we were doing
at this exact moment a year ago. I can
remember the pain and worry, but also the joy that our fifth son brought
us. I hope that’s the worst thing we
ever go through, but I know that there will be other hard times in the future. I hope that I’ve learned enough from Boston’s
birth that when I think, “I shouldn’t be here,” I remember and take comfort in the fact that it’s
probably exactly where God wants and needs me to be. And thank you to everyone who prayed for us, brought us food, encouraged us, and loved us last year when Boston was sick. It meant more to us than we can express. So happy birthday Boston! We love you and can't wait to see what special plans God has for you!
