Life’s Littlest Biggest Miracle

Some people don’t believe in miracles and I get that. We live in a world with constant bad news, where negativity is so pervasive and often overwhelms any desire to believe in special, inexplicable things. But I believe…all because life’s littlest biggest miracle happened to me.

Both my husband and I waited late in life (mid to late thirties) to get married and have children. We were raised traditionally; we wanted to be married, financially and emotionally prepared to have a child. We were lucky; we got pregnant within a couple of months after trying. The pregnancy went by wonderfully, all good test results, no health issues. In my seventh month of pregnancy, I came down with the pregnancy crud, a cough that just wouldn’t go away. It kept me up at nights; really taking a toll on an already tired mom-to-be’s health. But we didn’t let that stop our activity; we walked everyday while I was pregnant, even when I was sick, trying to stay as healthy as possible.

Around thirty-seven weeks, my blood pressure spiked and the doctors decided it was best to take the baby. They reassured us that everything would be fine, there was nothing to worry about, thirty-seven weeks was completely normal. They were wrong, big time. When our daughter was born, she looked completely normal and healthy. She was beautiful, but her breathing wasn’t quite right. After testing, they discovered there were issues with her lungs. She went straight into an incubator and eventually into a neonatal unit.

As I lay in the recovery area, my husband told me the news, but we both still didn’t quite grasp the totality. After all, she was healthy and happy, our precious baby girl. Eventually, it began to sink in and while absolutely disappointed and devastated that we didn’t get our fairy tale baby birth, we were eternally grateful for her health and determined to get her better and out of the hospital.

I still remember walking into her room in the NICU for the first time. She was tiny and so perfect, lying in an incubator. As I walked closer, I saw the tubes and wires coming from her tiny body and cried. There was nothing else to do. I was completely unable to control my emotions. It’s hard to explain how much you can love someone that you just met. Over the next few hours, I composed myself, knowing that she needed a strong mom, not a mom who would fall apart. And I determined in that moment that I wasn’t going to cry anymore. I wasn’t going to wallow in sadness, that I was going to focus on the positives. We would get her healthy and out of the hospital as soon as possible. I wanted to convey that attitude to her, trying to be the best parent I was able, even in the most difficult of times.

Over the next few days, we fell into a routine. I was pumping breastmilk, we were helping change her diapers and holding her, even helped give her a bath. Family came by to meet and love her; it all began feeling more normal. Well, as normal as caring for an infant can be in a hospital room. From the very beginning, we knew our little girl was a fighter. She didn’t like being swaddled; anything that restricted her movement wasn’t her favorite. She would break free from the swaddling blankets, reaching her arms and legs out. She constantly pulled out her feeding tube. It was a relief to us, almost like she was telling us, in her own little special way, that she was ready to go home, that she didn’t belong there. I had the opportunity to be with her when the nurses removed the ventilator tube, allowing her to breathe on her own. I’ve never cheered on anyone as genuinely and excited as I cheered on that little baby girl as she began breathing for herself.

We sang songs to her, really bonding like parents and a child should. I still remember the first time my husband put his head into her incubator. She stared at him and held his finger. It was a solemn and once in a lifetime moment. We would hold her and sing songs like, “You are so Beautiful” while she drifted to sleep. And then the dreaded discharge day for me came and it hit me like a ton of bricks. As I walked down the long hallway leading to the NICU, I realized that even though I’d promised not to cry, that I’d promised to be strong, that there was no way that was going to happen. The very thought of leaving our precious girl in the hospital was overwhelming. A lump sat in my throat as I fought back tears, kissing her head and cuddling. The tears eventually fell and we did what was difficult for any parent to do. We gave her our love, told her we’d be back, and drove home. It’s an understatement to say that was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life.

My husband and I pride ourselves on being problem solvers. We do this for a living. Every day, we pull ourselves out of bed and go to jobs that require a good bit of problem solving, thinking outside the norms to get results. We figured out pretty quickly that our daughter’s breathing issue wasn’t a problem we could snap our fingers and solve. We couldn’t sit down and brainstorm for a solution. We had to wait. The timing was out of our hands. We were forced to learn a little something about patience while we waited daily for her breathing to improve. It really was up to her and her body. Boy was that ever a hard lesson. We learned that there are problems that are completely out of our hands, those that we simply cannot solve.

Every day, we went to work, kept a routine, which strangely enough and completely foreign to some people, helped us remain sane. There was no way that we could have spent our entire day in the NICU with our daughter; it wouldn’t have been healthy for her or for us. When we were there, we watched the machine screens like a hawk, listening for every beeping alert, desperate for any change. We would ask the nurses for updates all the time, asking to speak with the doctors during their rounds. Every night or during the day on weekends, we would make our way down to the hospital to see our baby girl. Our families also came along to visit; they were such an amazing support during this time and we’d never have made it without them.

Each day, we desperately hoped for the same result. That her need for oxygen had gone down and her breathing would have slowed to an acceptable level and she could go home. But that immediate result eluded us. There were improvements, but they were slight. There were also some really dark days. There were some times when we didn’t have a lot of hope, nights where we sat up wondering how this all would end. We even wallowed in self-pity, resentful of those who’d experienced that perfect birth, whose babies were reunited with them in a birthing suite, those families who had the gorgeous picture to put on the birth announcement. We quickly realized that this was self-defeating behavior and really ungrateful, but it was an emotion that had to be recognized and worked through all the same.

My husband and I were tough and strong. We were determined to stick together. My parents, who are Chaplains, helped us keep the faith. They kept the faith for us when we didn’t have very much left. We prayed every night, every time we left her in the hospital, we would say a prayer. I would be lying if I said we didn’t have a small hope that our daughter would just suddenly be fine, that the breathing issues would go away in an instant, and we would see an instant miracle. And while that didn’t happen, there was something electric, something almost tangible that you could feel in the room when we prayed. We also prayed for all of the other babies in the same neonatal unit. Our hearts went out to other parents who were dealing with the similar situations and emotions, understanding their plight all too well.

While we learned about patience, we also learned a little something about gratitude. You see, our baby girl was the biggest in the unit. She was the healthiest, her problems the least. When people saw her, they wondered why she was even there. Just when you thought you were having the roughest day of all, that you were in the lowest dump of all dumps, you’d walk past the other rooms lining the unit and catch a glimpse of a tiny baby whose problems and recovery were far more daunting than you could ever imagine. And those were really special moments because you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for your situation, as unfortunate as it was, and you made sure to say a special prayer for those little babies because they needed it more than anyone. You quickly found yourself discarding any self-pity and replacing it with an amazing sense of gratefulness.

Fifteen long days later, we walked out of that hospital with a healthy baby girl. Behind us, we left families of and babies whose fates were not yet determined. The joy we felt in that day, leaving that hospital, cannot be explained. We wanted so badly to get our baby girl home, get into a routine, and go through all of the new parent ordeals. We desperately desired to wake up every couple of hours to feed our baby. We looked forward to dirty diapers and late nights. And boy, did we get just that and then some. Just as every new parent, we quickly found ourselves lacking sleep but so grateful to have the opportunity.

Our little girl is almost six months old and she is full of personality and life. She giggles, smiles, plays, and loves to go her own way. Of course, none of us know where she gets her stubborn streak; it certainly couldn’t be from her parents (wink wink)! We look back at pictures and remember how tiny and fragile she was, how difficult some of those days were for us. We can’t wait to see her grow up and are so grateful for our blessing in the form of a little girl who was born early but hasn’t wasted any time in growing up.

Months after our daughter was home, I ran across pictures of a tiny baby in a neonatal unit while thumbing through the Facebook news feed. The moment was deafening and took my breath. I started to cry for absolutely no reason. As I composed myself, I began to wonder where this reaction was coming from and why it was happening now. Our daughter was healthy and well, why did this have such an effect on me? After talking with my mother, I realized it was emotional trauma, there were feelings that hadn’t been dealt with; at some point, we all have to face the music. You have to confront your demons, those emotions, as painful as they may be, and deal with them. I realized that I’d been in survival mode and hadn’t had the time to face those feelings. I’ve since dealt with them but still feel my stomach rise when I see pictures of premature babies. I guess some things just stick with you for life.

We’ve learned that blessings can be readily found in the midst of grief, you just have to pull yourself out of your own sorrow and look for them. Our baby girl may have been born early, she may have had some issues, but her situation wasn’t nearly as dire as many others. Her discharge from the hospital was a definite, just a matter of time. There were families who didn’t have the luxury of knowing if their child would leave the hospital.

We’ve also learned that sometimes miracles don’t happen in the way or time that you would hope, but that’s what makes them miracles. After all, a miracle is something spontaneous, something inexplicable, kind of like love. You can’t explain it or how it works, just that when it does happen, it’s the best feeling in the world. We realized that the real miracle didn’t happen in an instant, but over time. Every moment of improvement, every second that our daughter did something they didn’t think she could. Every time we bonded with her and all of the strength we garnered as individuals, a couple, and family through this ordeal were all tiny miracles that made one big miracle.

Our daughter is life’s littlest biggest miracle. Every night we pray that she sleeps in heavenly peace and for those babies left behind in hospitals around the world. We will forever remember those babies and their families.

So the next time that you wonder if miracles happen, the next time you are questioning the existence of magical and inexplicable things, when you find yourself indulging in self-pity and are ready to give into pessimism, I challenge you to stop and look for the little miracles. Because when you put together the tiny miracles that don’t seem so magical, you’ll find that it’s like a puzzle for your big miracle. If you take the time to put the tiny pieces together, you’ll be surprised at the wondrous miracle you’ll see once that puzzle is complete. Maybe your own version of life’s littlest biggest miracle is just waiting to happen to you.