pPROM Awareness Month

We've been a pretty open book about our circumstances over the last few months.  At this point, you may be thinking, "lady, FOR THE LOVE, we know you had a baby.  And it was crazy.  We got you."  We know others may have chosen to not be so public about the struggle, and that's ok, too. 

But, we shared Dex's story long before we knew his name because we wanted to share hope.   

Seven months ago, I had never heard the phrase Pre-Viability pPROM (preterm premature rupture of membranes).  In layman's terms, my water broke before our baby was at an age at which he could be born and have any chance of survival.  My water broke at 38 weeks with both of my girls and they were born that same day, so I had no idea that your water could break and you could remain pregnant.  Maybe you didn't know that, either.  When the doctor told me that my son would either pass away in utero or I would deliver him within the next few days, I was left without an ounce of hope because I didn't know there was a third possibility.  I turned down being induced and asked for the most aggressive action to prolong the pregnancy, but was told it likely wouldn't help.  It wasn't until I asked for prayers for our little guy on Facebook that a friend from middle school youth group put me in contact with a mom whose water broke early and now has a healthy two year old daughter.  While I was crying in my hospital bed, that mama encouraged me to be grateful that at that very second, I was still pregnant and that's all I could ask.  She sent me information on the pPROM Regimen and charged me to prepare to fight for my baby's life, that we could be the ones to beat the odds.  I don't know what I would have done without that conversation, but I certainly want to pay it forward.  When someone hears of a situations similar to ours, I want them to be able to offer hope.  I want them to be able to say "this girl I went to high school with/my old coworker/my friend's daughter, etc. Her water broke at 17 weeks and her baby lived."  Where there is a heartbeat, THERE IS HOPE.

I also believe that sharing about our circumstances is one of the reasons we made it through.  Literally thousands of people have prayed for my son.  People we have never met and probably never will have been cheering on our little guy.  It allowed our family, friends, colleagues, and church to come alongside us.  Our devastation was mitigated by a sea of helpers (read more about that here).  I don't know how someone could get through this experience on their own.

And now that he's home, we still get the chance to share about his journey.  Just yesterday, we were sitting outside for lunch on the patio of Mac & Bob's.  Though we try to keep our distance, Dex naturally gets some extra gazes as he has a few more accessories than the average baby.  The sweet couple next to us began asking about him, and we got to share about his miraculous little life.  We are so proud of him.  As we went to leave, the waitress let us know that our check had been taken care of.  We don't know who did it, but we are so grateful, and it brings me so much joy to see others celebrate my little boy, too.  

So, I'm sorry in advance for all the times you'll hear about pPROM and how it has changed our lives.  We are hoping that in sharing, it can change someone else's, too.  

For more information on pPROM, visit aapprom.org.  

Look For the Helpers

The last six months have been nothing short of excruciating for our family.  For me.  It's just now that we are climbing out on the other side that I can process much of what happened.  I can tell more of our story now because I know the unexpected twist and the most precious ending.  I did bring my son home.  He's here, and he's perfect.  I can't type those words without simultaneous tears of joy.  

The beautiful thing is that this overwhelming joy of his presence covers much of the grief we experienced before.  I'm so thankful for how this miracle has cheapened the devastation.  Yet, I can't think of Thanksgiving and not feel the immediate swell of heartbreak.  My water had broken.  Our son would be born any day, and we would not be bringing him home.  Our girls, who didn't even know yet about their new sibling, would not meet him on this side of Heaven.  It was an aching, crushing pain.  

But, I also can't think of that time without being overwhelmed by love.  The kindness that my family was shown humbles me still.  Mr. Rogers' mom was right.  In the midst of our grief, there were the helpers.  Incredible, often unexpected, people who chose to show up and love our family.  

I was told that my son would not make it at 1:30 a.m. on Sunday, November 19, as I sat alone on in a triage room on the Labor & Delivery floor.  I was in shock and didn't have the strength to talk to each of my family members individually, so I sent a text letting them know the dire situation our little boy faced.  Without my asking or my knowledge, my mom and sister showed up at the hospital before my lunch tray was served.  They literally woke up, saw the text, and got in the car and drove from states away.  In our dark, quiet room with the shades drawn, they didn't give us platitudes, they just sat on that outdated loveseat and cried with us.  They pushed nurses for answers and cheered with us that our little boy still had a heartbeat.  They stayed with us for a week, and with my dad, took over my kitchen and served Thanksgiving dinner for my family.  That first week of devastation is a heartbroken blur, but this I know-- my family carried us
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Every day after, I cried from both grief and gratefulness.  On the days with doctor's appointments where it felt like we were drowning, we were buoyed by flowers that showed up at the hospital from my coworkers and our friends who have walked through even deeper grief of their own.  People brought food-- so much food-- so that I could stay on bedrest.  A high school friend of Sam's brought dinner and a giant crate of gifts for our girls, being sensitive to their hurt and my need for quiet, hands off ways to entertain them.  We had friends bring cupcakes to celebrate making it to our "steroids day."  Coworkers and college friends sent gift cards for meals and groceries.  A friend brought baked Christmas cookies and all the supplies so that I could make memories with my girls without the effort.  During those dark days, we had some people not show up quite as much as we would have thought (we get it: no one knew quite what to say to us), but my goodness, there were people who showered us with kindness who we barely knew, who we hadn't seen in years, who literally shocked us with their thoughtfulness.  It seemed like every day when Willa ran mail up to my room, I'd just open the cards and cry.  And then I'd tape them to the electric fireplace beside my bed, so that as I sat there for another day, I could look over and be encouraged that I wasn't the only one that cared what happened to this baby.  Others were fighting with me.  

The generosity didn't stop when I was admitted to the hospital.  My dad, Donna, and Nik drove up from South Carolina to love on the girls while I packed.  It allowed me the space to grieve this upcoming time away from my girls without having them underfoot to see it.  He stayed so that he could drive me over to the hospital with a ridiculous miniature Christmas tree to get me settled in my room, and wouldn't leave until after those first rounds of monitoring and vital checks came back normal.  When I couldn't eat for days during my hospital admission in November, all I wanted was fruit and in a state-of-the-art hospital, the only things we could find were old fruit cups and an overripe banana at the cafeteria, so my second day in the hospital this time, my dad sent an edible arrangement, just to make sure I had my fruit.

At least once a week, someone says "I don't know how you did it.  I would've gone crazy after seven weeks in the hospital."  I can tell you how I did it.  YOU.  You prayed for our family--me, Sam, our girls, and our unborn son.  You brought Buffalo Wild Wings by and delivered pizza to the hospital so that our family could eat dinner together, huddled around my bed in room 1345.  You came and sat with me.  You brought me Honeybaked Ham and talked to me about work so that I could feel some normalcy.  You visited every time you were in town, even if you were from hours away and we hadn't seen each other in months.  You sent flowers.  You fed my family at home three nights a week for months.  You typed up messages on Facebook, sent texts to ask how I was, mailed letters to the hospital (one volunteer asked how long I'd been there because she'd never delivered more than one piece of mail to someone and she was in my room every week).  You even sent Kendra Scott earrings to make me smile and so that I could feel all fancy on my 57th consecutive day of wearing leggings.  You brought coloring books and games, so that my girls could snuggle up on my hospital bed with me and play.  You sent Audible subscriptions so that I could listen to books when my arms were too weak from bedrest to hold up books long enough to read them.  You brought a jar with Scripture written on small pieces of paper, so that everyday my family and I could pull a verse and be reminded of His promises to us.  Doctors would plop down on the loveseat during their weekend on call and pass the time with me in between deliveries.  Nurses learned our names and listened to our story.

I have never felt more hurt than I did in November and December.  But, the beautiful thing is that I have also never felt more loved.  I pray my children never face a devastating natural disaster or a shattering personal loss.  I hope they never have to be swallowed up in grief.  But if they are, I hope they're able to stop long enough to look for the helpers.  They'll be there.  And if you let them, they'll carry you through.