A Broken Birth Story

I pulled out a photo today of my first son on the day of his birth.

I was on the hunt for a different set of pictures and I had forgotten that I’d stashed it in that folder out of sight. My own red-rimmed eyes look back at me. I’m cuddling a blueish newborn a few minutes after birth with my husband behind my shoulder. I’m smiling, but the exhaustion and uncertainty are what I notice more than the smile.

My first birth was not what I expected.

Preterm labor contractions ended in an early term birth at 37 weeks. Nineteen hours of labor and I was handed my limp, pale son for all of ten seconds before he was whisked away to the nursery to be monitored. I didn’t know about low apgar scores. No one mentioned that my son’s breathing was abnormally shallow. I was riding the high of finally giving birth, expecting any moment that he would be wheeled back into my hospital room and we’d finally enjoy the long awaited connection.

Then the epidural wore off. I later found out I was given an episiotomy to get him out quickly when his heart-rate dropped. Physically, I was in incredible pain. Emotionally I felt like I was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. The months of suffering, exhaustion, and vomiting behind trees, over porch rails, and in countless toilets had come to an end, and yet my door prize was missing.

A few hours later they wheeled me down the hall to see him.

I hobbled out of the chair over to the crib where he lay, chest fluttering, an oxygen hood over his head, when suddenly he began gagging uncontrollably and vomiting quantities of yellowish fluid. I was beyond terrified. Panicked, I yelled for the nurse who flipped him on his side until he began breathing again.

That was the moment I began to feel that this was an upside-down-crazy nightmare. I was Alice falling down the rabbit-hole.

I was the same 6 year old kid who excitedly boarded the spinning tea-cups at an almost deserted beach-side theme park but the operator got distracted and let me spin and spin and spin until I was sick.

Back in my room I lay there, thoughts whirling until the doctor walked in.
“I’m so sorry honey,” she began, “But we are going to have to transfer your son to Huntsville Hospital. We’re a rural hospital and not equipped to offer the care he needs right now. The NICU team will be here in just a few minutes to take him.”

Even just typing this I had to take a step back to get a handle on my emotions. To put them safely back in the mental box marked “First Birth”, and peer out the window at my firstborn.

He’s swinging a baseball bat outside, determination in his face as he focuses on the ball coming his way, laughing when he misses, and cheering his younger brother on in their impromptu game. When I look at him, safe and sound, it almost erases the memories of those dark moments.

Almost.

In my hospital room they brought the transfer incubator in to let me see him for a few seconds and sign the last of the paperwork. The EMT’s were dressed in blue jumpsuits. They wheeled the little cart out into the hallway and closed the door. The only sound in the room was my violent weeping. My Dad stood in the corner beside the sink, silent. My husband crawled into bed and held me.

I remember my sister-in-law, radiating compassion as she shared the story of her own first birth, when complications necessitated the transfer of her daughter to a Children’s hospital several hours away.

My doctor decided to release me only hours after delivery so that I could visit my son and be closer to him. The first night we managed to check in to a facility that was semi-close to the hospital. I cried myself to sleep in the twin bed someone had placed ten feet away from the one my husband slept in. Emotionally, I felt deserted, overwhelmed, terrified, and confused. It felt as if someone had taken a knife and ripped me in half body and soul.

Why was this happening to me? Why was my baby suffering? What purpose did this foray into the land of darkness serve?

These questions and the countless others I asked God are faded and dusty as I pull them from my memory box. I never received an answer, but the why doesn’t really matter to me like it did.

When I look back, I remember the pain, but even more, I remember the comfort I received in greater measure than the pain.

I remember Jesus and how present he was.

Tears roll down my face as I remember the beautiful body of Christ who walked with me and held my hands up and gave me hope when I thought I would lose what was most precious to me.

My bible-study leader Jami who, unknowing of the turmoil, came to visit, and instead helped me struggle into my loose sweatpants so I could check out of the hospital. I can still see the little red zippered pouch filled with gum, snack crackers and chap-stick that my friend Lindsey handed me so that I would be more comfortable in the waiting room. I’m reminded of  the church group who walked around the NICU passing out tiny Christmas ornaments and prayer to the families watching their tiny babies struggle in the cotton-lined incubator beds.

I recall how our landlord contacted the large church he attended in Huntsville, and arranged a place for us to stay literally right across the road from the hospital. A healing place, named “The Shannon House,” specifically kept so that families of NICU babies would have a place to stay, free of charge. I can remember even now, nine years later, how Shannon House felt when you walked in the door. The house was filled with a peace so thick it was almost tangible. It felt like hope. It felt like Jesus lived there.

I think that Jesus did live there. I think the brokenhearted are very near and dear to Him. He knows suffering so intimately because of His own great suffering.

Hebrews 4:15-16 says that “we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

Are you tempted to radiate bitterness when hardship comes? Is the suffering so great that you meditate on the wrongs instead of the One who makes all things right? Today, don’t let pain be the winner. Don’t let hurt triumph over the beauty and the hope of a humble Savior who shows compassion to those who fear Him.

This Savior knows us inside and out, and remembers that we are created from dust.(Psalm 103:13-14)

This is the God who will carry you when you can walk no further and sustains and rescues us. (Isaiah 46:3-4)

This incredible God of ours creates a garden from our desert and comforts us, even there. (Isaiah 51:3)

Most of all, He gives the assurance that we never walk alone, even in the valley of the shadow of death. (Psalm 23:4)

In retrospect, those five days before I could hold my baby again felt like a lifetime. The trauma packed into that week-long NICU  stay still causes flashbacks and anxiety for me.

But instead of focusing on the shimmery mirage of yesterday, I’m focusing on the Hope called Jesus, who brought me through, and was a strong foundation that will never be shaken. He is the God that I trust with my whole heart.

Take a moment:

1. Does the pain and trouble in your life seem more than you can bear? Is your heart weary and beaten down, and your situation unbearable? Pour out your troubles to the Lord and express yourself to the One who already knows what is inside you.
2. Choose the verses that seem applicable and meditate on the ways God is so vitally present in our pain. When life feels like you’re dust and ashes: Psalms 102:1-9                       Isaiah 61:1-3

   When you’ve cried so many tears that you feel there are none left:

   Lamentations 2:11-12       1 Samuel 1:10          Psalm 69:1-3           Psalm 56:8-11         Revelation 21:3-5

   When your heart is broken:

   Psalm 34:18          Psalm 147:3              Isaiah 61:1

           When you are overwhelmed and anxious:

            Psalm 142:3-4          Psalm 94:17-19                 1 Peter 5:7

2. Look at your problem or hurt again with fresh eyes. How do you see God at work in the situation? How is He your hope even in this?