Leaps of Faith

After we found out that Rhyan was a boy, we started shopping. Shopping for baby furniture, clothes, etc. Each time we bought something new, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. At 22 years old and already having lost two babies, I was very anxious about Rhyan's fate. I found out his gender at 16 weeks by purchasing a 2d ultrasound through a third party. This was not the furthest I had ever been in a pregnancy. I was scared. The thought crossed my mind (as we are by no means rich people) that maybe I should leave the tags on. Just in case. It was a sad thought. One day, after deciding that I would no longer be a prisoner to my past, I went into what was to become Rhyan's room and tore the tags off of every single piece of clothing in his closet. It was that day that I decided that Rhyan was going to live. I knew at that moment that although God's plan for my first two children was not to live on this Earth, but rather in Heaven, that was not his plan for Rhyan. Sure enough, approximately 11 weeks later, Rhyan was born. Tiny, but breathing. The nurses told me not to worry if he wasn't crying, as premature babies lungs are often too weak to cry at birth. I was prepared to hear nothing, but relieved when I heard him. It was not a loud cry, but it was a cry. It was a sign of life. He was fighting. Although such a simple gesture, I will never forget the day that I tore the tags off of that clothing and spoke into existence that Rhyan would wear them one day. God knew the desires of my heart. Sometimes, it's the little things. Literally.

God's Timing

As I exited onto the 2nd floor the other day during one of my daily visits with Rhyan, a new father with an empty carseat almost ran me over as he rushed off the elevator and towards what us preemie moms like to refer to as "the fat baby nursery." I glared with envy as I turned right and headed for the NICU where I would visit my baby for a few hours and then leave empty handed as I had approximately 148 times in the past two and a half months.

"N-ICU, this is ..."

"Yes ma'am, I'm here to see Baby Faughn."

"Relationship?"

"Mother."

"Okay, I'll open the door."

I entered my second home carrying my cooler full of breast milk for the milk lab tech to later add microlipids, calories, or whatever to then place in a syringe to be infused via pump into the little orange tube taped above Rhyan's lip and going from his mouth to his stomach. As I continued to wallow in my pity, I passed a young girl in a hospital gown  slightly bent over as she walked slowly through the hall. "Those good ole c sections," I thought. Then it hit me. She was alone. I thought back to the first few days after my c section. I remembered Jake pushing me down to see Rhyan in a wheelchair and carrying my epidural pump when I decided to become a martyr and walk.

I no longer felt sorry for myself, but I prayed for that young girl as I contemplated that the only thing harder than not having your baby at home with you would be facing this journey alone. 

"Good one, Lord, Perfect timing."

I walked into Rhyan's room in the NICU stepdown unit and watched him as he stared at his glow worm and nodded his head to the hum of "Twinkle, twinkle little star," on his glow worm.

After spending a few hours with him, I went home to pump and wait for Jake to get home. My daily routine. And although I loathe the breast pump, it is nice to burn calories while you lay in your bed and watch reruns of SVU.

When we went back that night to do Rhyan's daily weight, lotion, clothes change, etc., the nurse held him as he cried when we had to switch scales as the one we originally had was not accurate. As I watched her attempt to console him, my insides screamed, "GIVE ME MY BABY!" And although I knew that she meant well, I realized that my strength was waning and my patience had thinned. 

After Rhyan was dressed and tucked snugly back into his crib for the night, we went back home to our currently baby-less house. I went into his nursery. I sat in his glider and prayed. I thanked God for the blessings he had bestowed upon me in the form of my husband and son. And I prayed for patience.

Rhyan was born at 27 weeks and 3 days on Halloween because that was God's timing and His will for our lives. And we will bring him home on God's timing, not mine.

"But please, Lord, SOON!" We are still working on the whole patience thing.

Mixed Emotions

I announced his birth on Facebook. Added him to our health insurance online. Responded to text messages from friends and family. Called over to the NICU to check on him. Even though it was on the same floor, it seemed as if it were light-years away. Unreachable. My husband slept soundly just a few feet away from me on the semi couch in my hospital room, but I couldn't seem to stop the "what ifs" racing through my head long enough to fall asleep.

I read lots of "Congratulations" and "I hope everything's okay" messages that night and in the days that followed. No one seemed to know what exactly to say. The truth is, even I didn't know how to feel. Of course, I was happy that my baby was safe. But in the same moment, I shuddered at the the thought of the struggle that I knew lay ahead.

Some women mourn the loss of a normal, full term pregnancy when their baby is born prematurely. And so did I, emotionally anyway. But my body embraced the change. The metaphoric sigh of relief was almost audible. The sense of guilt was nearly enough to make me physically ill. I would have done absolutely anything to have my precious baby still tucked away from the world, in the safety of his mother's womb.

Our family was completed when Rhyan took his first breath. His presence in this world filled a void that we never knew was empty.

The first time I was able to visit him, I watched his chest shallowly inflate almost violently as he struggled to breathe. At this point, Rhyan was not yet intubated as he was breathing on his own at birth until he got tired at around 36 hours. I literally watched his heart beat. I could have counted his pulse without even touching him. I have never felt more broken than I did at that moment.

I struggled with the flurry of different, conflicting emotions that I felt all at once. Happy, sad, angry, guilty, thankful.

But there was a light at the end of that dark and scary tunnel. After 29 days on the ventilator, Rhyan was extubated and never looked back even though we were warned that it is very common for babies to have to be reintubated. You couldn't count his pulse now through his chubbiness if you tried. There are lots of lights at the ends of lots of tunnels that await my family. We see them every time Rhyan reaches a new milestone. He's had lots to achieve and many that still lay ahead. He has shown us the unrelenting, resilient strength of such a little man.

The moral of the story is that it's okay to grieve. It doesn't mean that you aren't thankful that your baby is alive and breathing (with or without the help of a machine) as some are not so fortunate. It means that you are human and sometimes the "right" way to feel is not the reality of your situation.

The doctors and nurses have told me that they do not believe that Rhyan will be a "chronic preemie," but my life has been forever changed. I am a preemie mom. I will always shudder when I hear the letters  R S V. I will always have to hold my tongue when I hear a  pregnant woman complain about her uncomfortable-ness at 40 weeks. But most of all, I will cherish every second with the miracle that God has blessed me with. I will spend the rest of my life thanking God that he chose to me to be Rhyan's Mommy.

Home Is Where Your Heart Is

"Is he usually this still?" the ultrasound tech asked as we watched the shape of our 26 week son sleeping still and soundly on the black and white screen. As tears began to fill my eyes, I told her yes and that I didn't know why. As it goes, she sent us down to the 5th floor where my OB's office is with a stack of fuzzy photos displaying lots of foreign numbers. On the way down, my iPhone wooed me to Google  "biophysical profile scoring at 26 weeks," against my better judgement. I learned that the scoring was based on a 10 point rudric and that a 7 was not extremely promising. A wave of disappointment and familiar emptiness rushed over me. I had been here before.
After an embarrassing, but uncontrollable outpouring of tears in the waiting room, we were called back and put in a room to wait for my doctor. Although she comforted and assured us that our baby was okay, all I seemed to hear was "We'll put you in the hospital to monitor you and repeat the biophysical profile. If the score is the same or lower, we will go ahead and deliver the baby via c section this weekend to prevent putting him under further stress." I couldn't believe it. Just a week earlier, I was having what I thought to be a perfectly healthy pregnancy.
First came the swelling. And the excessive weight gain. This happens to everyone when they're pregnant right? Then the headaches and the shortness of breath. At some point, the combination started to come together in the nurse part of my brain. 160/105.
The first hospitalization was okay. Aside from the whole lack of sleep thing. And the holding my breath waiting to hear my baby's heart beat every 3 hours on the fetal monitor. But I had my husband, and a so far, healthy baby boy still growing peacefully inside of me. All of us ignorant to the struggle that lay ahead. Jake and I spent the weekend watching TV shows on the laptop and taking wheelchair trips down to the Subway on the 1st floor of the hospital. As a lifelong rule, never eat hospital catfish.
Sometime that weekend, my favorite antepartum nurse, (we'll call her Nan for good measure) explained to me that the results of my urine protein were okay, not severe enough to deliver just yet, but definitely indicated that I was preeclamptic.
On Sunday, the infamous perineonatologist that we had heard so much about, wheeled his portable ultrasound machine into my hospital room and so it began again. So much for trying to keep your blood pressure down, eh? I sent up a few quick, desperate prayers. "Lord, please, don't take him from me. Not yet." Dr. C was a man of few words, but that's all I needed. "He gets a 10. He's perfectly fine."
False alarm. In the clear. LET'S GO HOME!
The next day, my doctor came in and told me that she would let me go home as long as I was okay with coming back and forth for frequent blood pressure checks, etc. Sure, sure. Home sweet home.
I entertained two miserable nights in my own bed. I began to look like the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka except not blue. I drank all the water that I could force down. I peed into a white, plastic "hat" positioned on my toilet and then poured it into a jug to take to my doctor's office to be tested for protein on Wednesday.
I drove myself to the doctor that morning and made lunch plans with my husband for after my appointment. As I sat in the waiting room (pee jug in hand), I texted him, "Happy Halloween!" and "At least we've made it to a November birthday." Wrong.
+4 on the dipstick.
"Can I go home and get clothes?"
"No."
Nan drew a cat on the whiteboard in my new room.
Baby's name: Rhyan Tyler
Gestational age: 27 weeks 3 days
I waited for the urine protein results to come back. 1.35 to 16 grams in just 2 shorts days. She hadn't said it yet, but I knew it was time.
IV infusing magnesium sulfate, blankets lining the bed in case my preeclampsia escalated to eclampsia. They told me not to be alarmed if he didn't come out crying, his lungs weren't very strong.
But then I heard him, strong as can be, wailing at being torn from his mother's womb. Too early. Unfairly. Emptiness. Why me? Why him? Why us?
A man that I had never seen before held him up for me to see for 1 second. Then he was gone. Whisked away to be saved.
The NICU. A little sign hung outside of Room 8. "Rhyan," it read in big colorful letters. "1lb15oz, 14 inches."
The morning after Rhyan was born and after the mag was finished infusing, it was time to go. And I was ready. Pain. Pshh. Then I tried to stand. Okay, that hurts. Bad. But I made it and that was my first of many journeys to the backside of the 2nd floor where lies all the tiny miracles like mine.
As I watched my son sleep outside of my body for the first time, I wondered if he knew that I hadn't abandoned him. That I was still here. That I wasn't going anywhere. How could I? It's impossible to live without your heart inside of your chest, but my heart lay in a plastic case that the nurses called a "Giraffe" bed.