Our Little Miracle

With R turning one in no time, I have been thinking a lot about her entry into our lives and this world. In more ways than one, our little girl was a complete miracle. I have never fully shared the whole birth story, as it was too emotional for me to retell. It hasn’t been until recently, that I was able to process the trauma we went through after her delivery. I didn’t realize, until the last couple of months, how traumatic it all was and how I almost had PTSD about it.

R entered this world and nearly left this world as fast as she came into it. I felt that since her first birthday is around the corner, I would share what happened that day, as I have begun to process it and my husband and I have talked about it, and I have learned more about what happened in those moments after I delivered her.

As you all know (unless you’re new here), R wasn’t planned and at first, as much as I hate to admit it, I wasn’t all to welcoming of the fact I was pregnant with her. I went through a dark period in my life, where depression sank in and I was a miserable person to be around. Years before I was pregnant with R and even before I was married, my doctor had told me it would be difficult for me to get pregnant, because of a certain health condition. So I decided early on I just wanted to adopt and never even really try to have kids of my own.

I didn’t think I would really have to worry about getting pregnant and Marc and I weren’t trying and were using protection, and with what the doctor told me, it wasn’t on our radar. So when 4 months into marriage I was pregnant, you can imagine my shock and surprise. From the start R was a miracle. I guess maybe there was a short window of time, and God knew that so He gave us R.

Mentally, emotionally, and physically it was a hard time for me during pregnancy. I never had the excitement most mother’s had and couldn’t wait for it all to be over. I was emotionless. The day R was born, my world changed and it hasn’t been the same.

Labor was long, intense and scary. I was on oxygen and baby’s heart rate was dropping. The nurse was getting scared. I was throwing up from pain, white as a ghost and panicking because I knew something was wrong. When it was finally time to push, I came off oxygen and the R’s heart rate was stronger (if you want, you can read more about the details here). After I delivered her, it didn’t take me, the doctor and everyone else in the room long to realize something was wrong.

R didn’t utter a sound. Marc cut the cord, I asked why my baby wasn’t crying. “She’s supposed to be crying.” The doctor replied “She’s fine, just going to give her to the nurses and they’ll check her.” He handed her off making weird eye contact with them, as I replied, “No something’s wrong, she’s not crying. She’s supposed to be crying. Why isn’t she making noises. I want my baby.” My first look at my child was of a purple lifeless baby girl. My heart broke.

A flood of emotions hit me like a huge tidal wave. I could hear worried voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying or what was going on. More and more people were flooding into my birthing room. The room started to spin. I felt heavy on the bed, and couldn’t move because the doctor was helping me deliver the placenta and then stitch me up from tearing. I became hysterical. I was screaming for my child, asking what was wrong and going on. No one was answering me.

The doctor finally asked someone to come calm me down and talk to me. I kept yelling how guilty I felt. “It’s all my fault. I am so sorry. God please don’t take my baby girl. I am sorry. Please, please…..” I didn’t know how to express all that was going on inside. I felt so guilty that at first I didn’t want R, and now she was gone. I didn’t get to hold her, tell her I love her, say I was sorry. Why was this happening? What did I do wrong?

Marc was watching a team of doctors and nurses try to get R to breathe. She was born not breathing. They couldn’t get the tube down her throat, as it kept getting stuck and they were getting more nervous. Time was running out. They new the longer she went without oxygen, the chances of survival were slim, and that even if she did survive the chances of serious brain damage was high. Since they couldn’t get the tube down, they were trying to pump oxygen in with a small hand pump. Soon their oxygen ran out and they needed more.

Marc witnessed it all. He saw his little girl go from a purple color, to a deep blue, to gray. She was cold and lifeless. He says it was the scariest day of his life and was so scary looking at her that way. He hates thinking about it. He hated watching the doctors try to get oxygen to her, but not able to get the tube in and then running out of oxygen. The look on their faces told him they thought she was dead and there was no hope. Marc knew it wasn’t good.

The next thing I knew, they called for a Code Blue on the hospital intercom with my room number. When I heard it I broke even more. I just wanted to get off the bed and see my little girl. I wanted to tell her I loved her. My mom grabbed my hand and face and said “Bryanna you have to have faith. Just have faith.” I just shook my head.

My sister heard the code blue and my room number. She thought it was for me, as she knew I was earlier on oxygen and not doing well. She burst into tears, but couldn’t come back into the room to see what was happening. She called my dad who was en route from Montana, and told him something was wrong and they called a code blue. How my dad made it here safely, I’d rather not like to know. My mom stepped out of my room for a brief moment, as she couldn’t handle seeing everything. She needed to pray and believe for a miracle. She couldn’t take the doctors looks of hopelessness. They thought R was dead and didn’t know how they were going to tell me. My mom couldn’t handle their disbelief, when she was trying to believe for a miracle.

She asked God for answers, and He told her to go to my child and pray for her. She knew that was nearly impossible with all the doctors around her.  She came back into the room, and the room was crowded. 10-15 doctors and nurses were working on R. A doctor moved out of the way for a moment, and my mom saw her opportunity. She stepped in front of R, put out her hand and said “You will not die. You will live. I command breathe into your body in the name of Jesus. You will live.”

I don’t know how I long after that R starting breathing with the assistance of the oxygen. What I do know is that she didn’t breathe for 3o minutes. They all left the room after that, and Marc followed her, and my room was empty. Time stood still. It seemed like a lifetime before anyone came to me, and I had no idea what had happened. If she was okay, alive, breathing, dead. On the way up to the NICU she stopped breathing again.

It was over an hour before I finally was able to see Marc and baby girl again. All I knew was that she was in the NICU. A nurse wheeled me up to her, as I as still begging God to not take my little girl. I burst into tears when I saw her. They wouldn’t let me touch her. I just wanted to at least hold her hand, touch her arm and cheeks. I looked at her from behind glass. She was on oxygen with wires all over the place. They were poking her with needles and running tests. This was my child and they weren’t going to let me touch her.

We chose the name finally and I balled uncontrollably. When the doctors left, I held her hand and told her how much I loved her and I was so sorry. Hours later I was able to finally hold her. She had my heart the moment I saw her and forever will. She was a fighter from the beginning. Leaving her every night for a week in the NICU was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I came so close to losing her, and didn’t want to risk it again. I hated leaving her. I cried nearly every night for a week straight.

Til this day, it’s hard for me to leave R. I believe it’s because of nearly losing her. Even if it’s only for a few hours while I am coaching I hate it. Even though she’s with my sister or my husband.  I think about her the whole time I am gone, and I am always anxious to get back. I have a hard time letting go, and I think it will be like this for some time. I give a long list of instructions to my sister every time I leave, even though she’s done it hundreds of time and R is usually napping the entire time I am gone. I have her nap when I am gone on purpose, this way she doesn’t know I am gone. It’s still so hard for me.

I still get so emotional whenever anyone wants to know what happened, and I spare most of the details because it’s hard reliving the moment. I hate even more looking at the pictures. I had a lot of guilt and shame to wrestle with. I love my baby girl and feel guilty for not welcoming her at first. I asked God why He spared her life, when so many others have lost their children in the same way. I have learned some questions are hard to answer, and God doesn’t take our loved ones He receives them. My mom says He knew I wouldn’t have been able to handle it if she were to have died, not that anyone truly does. I had deep guilt already.

Whether you believe in miracles or not, I will always believe R was a miracle. I can’t doubt it. My child was born lifeless. Not only is she alive, she is thriving. She has no brain damage or developmental problems, which is a miracle as well. Going without oxygen for that long and not having any type of brain damage is amazing. I am beyond thankful she is in our lives. Our little miracle. Our little fighter.