The miraculous story surrounding the birth of my first son, Jay, cannot be summed up in a single post, so I will be posting it in two parts. This is part one:
When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, my son Jay, I was terrified. He was unplanned, and although I desperately wanted to be a mother and have a family, I felt totally unprepared. Soon after, the fear turned into hope and anticipation. Soon, I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone, or anything, in my entire life. I painted his nursery, and decorated it from top to bottom in a "Froggy Tales" theme. I would stand inside that cheerful nursery, daydreaming of the day I would hold him in my arms, and stare at his sweet little face.
Then at twenty one weeks into my pregnancy, I suffered a placental abruption (cause unknown). Placental abruption is when the placenta separates early from the uterus, in other words, separates before childbirth. I was hospitalized, and doctor after doctor told me how hopeless my situation was. A baby born before twenty four weeks is not even offered life support, because there has not been the crucial lung development needed to respond to oxygen. I was told, that if I delivered him, they would wrap him in a blanket, place him in my arms, and I would have to hold him until he passed. They told me to "prepare myself" for that. How could I possibly prepare for something so devastating? I could not even bare the thought of it!
I was told that even if I continued to carry him, he could have birth defects. One doctor even went so far as to tell me that I should abort him, because I was at risk of developing an infection known as sepsis, which can be deadly. She also stated that I was risking damage to my reproductive system, that would prevent me from having future children. As if I should just throw one baby away, so that I could have more in the future. His own father wanted me to abort him. My response to them both regarding abortion was an easy, one "Not an option. I would rather die, then lose him".
As I laid in my hospital bed, I did something that I had not done in my entire adult life...I prayed. I prayed for my baby. I prayed to God to save him, and take me instead. I swore I would never ask for anything ever again. I was truly the most terrified and desperate, that I had ever been.
I was determined not to deliver him. Not yet. Each day that went by, I clung to the hope that I could carry him to twenty four weeks, when at least he'd have a chance (be offered life support). I went into labor several times, but I swear that I willed it away. I was in so much physical pain, but it was worth it, to avoid the emotional pain of losing him.
Then, at twenty four weeks to the day, I delivered him. I was told that he would have to be born via c-section, because he would not survive a vaginal birth. There was no time. He had already entered the birth canal, and not only was born vaginally, but also breech.
I delivered him, and the nurses took him away before I could even see him. I started crying, because I thought I had just sentenced him to death. After some time, the doctor who had delivered him came back into my room, visibly surprised, and said "He's responding to oxygen".