4-Ever & Always
4 years ago today we woke up in a quiet hospital room and knew it was the day we were going to meet you.
My dreams of giving you a natural, simple welcome into the world were long gone, yet that morning I felt overwhelming peace. Every step of the way you and God made the decisions very clear. Subtlety is not your forte and your birth was no different.
Your heart rate dropped significantly each time they tried inducing me, so after a night of rest we knew the doctor would be greeting us with the c-section conversation. It was the one thing I had desperately wanted to avoid. I was terrified of surgery and had hoped to give you every possible benefit that comes from a natural birth. But the quiet of that morning provided a moment of calm that allowed me to shed some tears and boldly prepare myself to do what was necessary to give you the best chance at life, even if the birthday party God had written looked nothing like I imagined.
Because of our uneventful night, the team didn’t see a need to rush to surgery. We discussed OR availability with our doctor as if we were making dinner reservations when suddenly your heart rate plummeted again.
Clearly you didn’t want to wait.
And our doctor agreed.
After shifting side to side didn’t raise your heart rate I was up on my hands and knees with maximum oxygen and fluids pumping through me. The room had quickly shifted from a casual conversation with our doctor to urgent surgery preparation. Our OR time slot moved from 1:30 to 10:30, just 20 minutes from the time your heart rate dropped. Nurses, surgeons, anesthesiologists, and more cycled through the room in organized chaos. Jen, our doula, arrived just in time and was able to bring her peaceful presence to assess not only my needs but your Daddy’s, reminding him to grab a granola bar and help him with his scrubs. I had to go alone – Daddy and Jen would meet us in the OR once my team had me prepped and settled.
It was far from a graceful transition – I was still on all fours, being rushed butt-first down the hallway. It was like a rodeo mixed with prenatal yoga with a dash of every classic emergency TV scene. My amazing nurses and I laughed about it as they practically ran, and honestly I still laugh about it now.
The OR was full – roughly 8 staff were there for me and 5 were ready and waiting for you. Countless members of my medical team moved around me with coordinated, urgent, precision. Someone undressed me while someone else put monitors on my chest while yet another person placed the BP cuff and O2 sensor. My primary nurse never left my side, her red nails wrapped around my hands and held me in a tight but tender hug to help keep me calm. The anesthesiologist was cool and collected, chatting about yoga as he placed my spinal block. Once I was prepped and ready, Daddy and Jen joined the party.
It took 4 minutes once surgery started to get you out. You were quiet but very much alive and kicking. They tried raising you up above the drape so I could see but only Daddy was able to catch a glimpse before they wrapped you up and ran you into to the attached NICU OR suite. All I could do was stare at the window to your room. You were alive. You were alive.
Daddy stood by the door, watching intently as they stabilized you. Every time your name was said a pain ripped through my chest. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was longing for you in such a physical way that even the sound of your name caused panic to grip my body.
Once your team had you ready, Daddy and Jen were able to go see you. Jen took pictures of your sweet face and quickly came out and allowed me to meet you through her camera screen.
Eventually they settled you in your special travel isolette and rolled you over to meet me as they finished my procedure. Tears rolled down my cheeks (and the cheeks of the nurses) as I looked through the window and saw your precious, miraculous face for the very first time. I finally was able to say “Hello, Norah.”
Today is a day we celebrate. We focus on the joy and the miracle of Norah being born alive four years ago, despite the predictions of so many. To honor her incredible life we’re sharing this year’s Love, Norah fundraiser. The shirt is $25 and features the names of many of Norah’s angel buddies as well as hearts representing unnamed losses on the back. Love, Norah is an initiative started by our doula to provide doula birth support to hurting families (medical complexity, anticipated loss, financial hardship, etc) in honor of our sweet girl.
Also, in honor of Trisomy 13 awareness day on March 13th, I’ll be sending out a free e-book entitled Legacy of Hope: Volume 1 to all of the Hello, Norah email subscribers. This book is a collection of thoughts on hope in the shadow of death from several different authors including myself. Each contributor has been touched by death in one way or another, and my goal is for our unique experiences to help equip others to better see the hope in their own situation. So if you haven’t already, be sure to subscribe today!
Love you baby girl, four-ever and always.
