I Shouldn't Be Here

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.”

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.

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. 

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. 

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!