Pictures

I got ultrasounds regularly in the hospital.  Once every few days at least.

A year ago yesterday the technician turned on the 3D component of the ultrasound machine, and I got to see my son like this:

Remember that a year ago yesterday is when the doctor said that "over the weekend things will likely present themselves."  I wonder if the ultrasound technician thought this might be one of the only pictures I'd have.  I knew that when she turned on the 3D -- that this was her gift to me.  Thankfully many more pictures have come since then.  Fantastic, since this shot isn't his best.  

Here's one from yesterday that reminded me of him in the ultrasound picture. Much more handsome now.

And finally, for your listening enjoyment, links to some of the songs I heard on my MP3 player last night when running:

This Time Next Year (Fernando Ortega) -- eleven months ago I could not have listened to this song. I couldn't even imagine JAM in a year, because it hurt too much. Now, on the eve of his first birthday, this song gives flight to hopes and dreams and joy.

Storm (Fernando Ortega)

The Oxytocin Rules - about bedrest

July 6, 2012 - Looking back a year. "Don't come out baby, no no no, that's a no no," my daughters would chant to my belly.  It would become a regular ritual when I went home on bedrest.  For now I was in the hospital and they were trying their best to be good.  They couldn't climb on me, they couldn't crawl on the floor, there were just no good coloring spots around if the floor was off limits.  So they tried to get comfy on the hospital couches, but their behinds slipped around on the vinyl, and so it got them all squirmy.  All in all, they didn't have much patience for hanging out with me, so visits with my children were short.

I missed my girls so much. I went from a fantastic vacation away to a less than fantastic hosptial stay, and we hadn't had enough time together. I had just gotten bad news, too. Yesterday my doctors said I could go home today. Today they told me no. The contractions were coming regularily, each day we saw some, and they wanted to keep a better eye on me through the weekend.

"Over the weekend things will present themselves" the doctor said as he ordered a drug to stop contractions.

I knew what that meant.You might have this baby this weekend.  It was his nice way of telling me.  I was stuck.  And a year ago today, I was a day shy of 22 weeks, still two weeks out from a gestational age of viability.

Even though visits with my girls were brief, a steady stream of other friends had been dropping by all week. So between the doctors, the nurses, my attempt to make something like a normal working life in a hospital bed, and the pleasant visits with coworkers and friends, bed rest wasn't so bad.

Friends brought me food baskets and books. My former chair, an avid reader, brought books that I couldn't quite believe he'd ever read, but that were just perfect for me. One was The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club.  Not quite the book you'd expect an emeritus professor to pick, but it was proof that he knew me well.  My gardening friend, Ruth, brought a large stack of floral magazines, full of off-season flowers and fruits so that I wouldn't be tempted to order anything or garden.

Christina came regularly. She's the sort of person that draws out everyone around her. You get caught up in her laughter, and her exuberant openness opens you up. She's a fantastic friend to have when you're on bed rest. When she dropped by, within minutes laughter would be ringing down the hallway.

It was through conversations with her that we discovered the oxytocin rules.  She would stop by and we would start gabbing. I was dreaming of a viable baby so of course the conversations turned to talk of babies,  family, birth experiences and nursing.  Or she'd drop by and we'd watch a movie with popcorn and fancy sodas.  But then, before she left, whether it was the belly-laughter or the talk of babies, my belly would start balling up. Every fifteen. Then every ten. Then every five minutes. "You're having them again, aren't you?" she'd say. "I can tell by the look on your face  - and you're looking at the clock again."

So we made up the oxytocin rules.
No discussions about:
1. Sex or romance
2. Babies
3. Having babies / being pregnant
4. Nursing babies
5. Spicy food

Any discussion of the aforementioned forbidden five would involuntarily boost the levels of oxytocin in my system, and I'd start contracting again. Within an hour. It was uncanny but it never failed. I should have realized then that my body was hormonally way too ready to have this child.  I told Steve he wasn't allowed to kiss me or think I looked even slightly attractive. Even a romantic sparkle in his eyes, and this baby would fly out.

Oh, a note: I never really tested out the spicy food rule. Just in case you wondered. There is no spicy food in the hospital. It's all bland. So I wasn't having any difficulty not eating spicy food, and for some reason it just didn't come up in conversation. Still, I added it to the list, just to be safe.  I didn't add "fits of laughter" to the list, because I didn't want to go four months without laughing, but I did try to keep the belly laughs to a minimum. No sense reminding those muscles how to tighten, after all.

So Christina visited and we watched not-chick-flicks. Anything that was the opposite of a feel-good romance. Like Buffy the Vampire Slayer which, for the record, I hated through the first season and a half. I would never have invested in it normally, but I was on bed rest, Christina needed to watch it "for research," ("So you're really helping me out by watching this with me") and while I found the gory parts boring, eventually they toned all that down and it got funny with witty lines and banter.

Best yet: teenage romance doesn't count as romance, and (other than the baby-eating-monsters episode, which I mostly skipped over) there were no babies.  As babies were everywhere I looked -- even flipping through the channels at the hospital wasn't safe, because they have no less than three channels dedicated to round-the-clock information about having, nursing, and caring for babies -- it was nice to be able to escape to Sunnydale High from time to time.

Lesson Learned: If your friend is on bedrest from preterm labor, drop by with movies and books like Ender's Game or Lord of the Rings. Something with no babies and no romance.  And bring games -- just in case the conversation accidentally turns to oxytocin-inducing topics. Best to have an escape plan.  "Yes, I agree, babies are sweet and cuddly and I love them too. Now, shall we play some Dungeons and Dragons?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, July 6, 2013, I'm trying to stay on top of things.  11 days until Jonathan's first birthday. I need to buy a present, and I'm not quite sure to get. I'm  surfing http://www.itsapreemiething.com/ for cute t-shirts. They are all a little more pricey than I'm willing to spend for a onesie, but it's fun to look.

"How long will he be defined by being a preemie?" Steve said as he watched me surf preemie t-shirt sayings.

"Not much longer probably," I said, "Just until he outgrows the preemie issues maybe?  I mean, he'll hear it enough growing up that we're going to have to drop all the 'do you know how small you were?' language because it'll get old for him."

But, honestly, I'm not quite sure what else to get.  A huge part of me is still so very proud that he made it that I want to still (while he's still too young to hate me for it) shout his survival story from the rooftops.  Don't give me nasty looks because he's so small still (true story, I've gotten nasty looks), celebrate with me that he's here!

What do you get a baby who has about half a dozen ages? Age: 1 year. Adjusted age: 8 months. Size: 3 to 6 months. Motor skills: 4 months. Social skills: about 9 months. We have difficulties with having him in his high chair. He's too short for his arms to clear the table part of the chair, so he can't pick up food and put it into his mouth, even though developmentally that's what he wants to do.  His hands are so small that even though he wants to hold his own bottle, he can't wrap his fingers around it well enough yet. So, what toys are best? It's hard to know.

Steve says "just get a shirt that says 'Mom loves me,' I mean, that's what most one year olds get."  Maybe he's right.  But still I surf. And you know what? It's kind of nice to find a website with cute sayings that say to a mom like me, "We get it!  We know this is a crazy way to have a kid!"

Top cute onesie sayings (from itsapreemiething.com):

• Do I look fat in this yet?
• Fun sized
• Don't let my size fool you
• No really... I'm one!
• I earned these rolls
• Once tiny, always strong [with footprints that say "1 lb 5 oz" and "23 weeks"]

Okay, I'll take a poll. You can help me with this.  If I can afford one t-shirt, which saying is best?

As for the birthday cake -- that's an easier predicament.  He can't have eggs or milk until he's one year actual (so 16 months old), but Steve's family is vegan. Steve is vegan. So vegan cake and icing and ice cream are easily done.  Except that I also need to avoid soy and nuts.  SO -- I'm also looking for good vegan and nut/soy free cake and icing recipes.  If you have one, you'll save me the hassle of pouring over cookbooks, so feel free to post a comment below.

A year ago I couldn't get hugs or kisses.  Now I smother my son & daughters with them.

The difference of a due date

As you see from yesterday's post, days matter in the life of a micropreemie.  A year ago today, though, I still hoped for a full-term baby.  But things weren't looking good.

I was in bed rest in the hospital, and the contractions had started to return.  It was July 5, 2012.  I was 21 weeks past my last cycle, and trying to figure out how early I could have this baby and have him live.  I suddenly became very concerned about days.  There was talk about letting me go home tomorrow to do bed rest at home, if I could get the contractions back under control.  In preparation for that, the nurse came in and was going through my discharge record with me.  She said I was 21 weeks and 3 days along, due November 12.  This was as dated by the first trimester ultrasound, and every ultrasound since.  21 weeks and 3 days, due November 12.  But according to my last menstrual cycle I was 21 weeks and 5 days.

A few weeks earlier when the second trimester ultrasound had revealed the same date as my first trimester ultrasound, I'd asked them to use the later due date, November 12.  At that point all was well in my pregnancy.  I wanted my charts changed so that I wouldn't feel like inducing early. It was sort of a mental game. I hate pitocin. I had planned to have this baby via vaginal birth after a terrible experience and c-section with my second child, and I'd wanted to have the time for this baby to come drug-free and in his own time.

That was before I learned that "his own time" seemed to be far too soon.  In the past week, on bed rest fighting to stay pregnant, I'd changed my mind about the best due date for this baby.  "Could you state my due date as November 10 instead?  That's my due date by my last menstrual cycle."  And, since they were so close, just like that, I went from 21 weeks and 3 days to 21 weeks and 5 days pregnant.  Seems small, I know, but I was playing a different mental game this time.

Turns out those two days would matter.  When I went into labor a few weeks later, on July 15, I was in the 23 week range by the November 10 date, and the 22 week range by the November 12 date.  Changing the date didn't make him more viable, but it made him more likely to be considered potentially viable in the minds of doctors and nurses. And in my mind, too.  Only one doctor would have considered resuscitating a 22 weeker.  All were willing to resuscitate a 23 weeker.

Lesson Learned: If you are not yet to 24 weeks, go by the EARLIEST due date allowed. Don't switch to the later one until you're well into your last trimester.  It might not matter, but you never know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, July 5, 2013 is a beautiful day. Perfect weather. I'll probably go for a run once I've had a chance to pump. There's a cool breeze and a warm sun. My sister and her friend dropped by on their way through town. We all sat out on a blanket near the lake and enjoyed sandwiches for dinner. Despite being extraordinarily tired from a long day (his post-op visit was today) Jonathan showed off his rolling skills on the blanket, and the girls got as close to the water as they possibly could without getting in trouble. They found a turtle, and Ella is sure she counted 42 ducks.  While he was a bit tired for it all, Jonathan even managed to sit up for a few seconds by himself.

Our worries today are primarily food related. "I don't get it," Steve said to me over the phone at lunch time, "He's a human, humans like to eat.  Why doesn't he like to eat?!?"

The last time Jonathan was weighed, we saw that he was starting to fall even further off the growth chart.  He's already less than 2% for his adjusted age, less than 0.1% for his actual age, and yet he doesn't seem able to get from 13 to 14 pounds -- even if we give him three months to do it.  He's not losing weight, not yet, but his rate of growth is no longer tracking with the growth curves.

So we try to feed him. Whatever he wants, whenever he wants.  He's okay with teething biscuits and oatmeal and fruit and veggies -- as long as he is feeding himself.  Problem is, he's too uncoordinated. And today, even though we gave him ample time to play with the food himself, he wanted only to stare at the spoon in his hand.  We count the ounces of breast milk.  We add extra calories through formula. We sneak food in him whenever we can via a feeding tube in his tummy, but he is still so very small.  His feet just this past month became bigger than the prints we have of his sister on the day she was born.  And then they are only barely bigger.

"Maybe he's tired. Or teething?" I suggested over the phone. It seemed possible. With our other kids, I'd just let them be. No biggy if they don't want to eat. With Jonathan it's a guessing game.  Feed him -- but if you over feed him that's really bad, he'll make you regret it -- or don't feed him until he tells you he's hungry. He'll tell us, but then maybe we've waited too long and lost precious time to sneak in extra calories.

Mostly we just sneak the calories through the g-tube.  Tonight I did that after he fell asleep.  Only two extra ounces.  But it didn't sit well, so fifteen minutes later he woke up crying.  As I sat in the rocking chair rocking him back to sleep, I watched the light on the canopy of maple leaves outside. He is little, but he is full of spirit. He is the happiest, most content child we've ever had -- and we've had some content children.  (Eleanor alone is responsible for a half a dozen more babies being born around a year after she was -- "false advertising" she was. "They don't all come this cute or this well behaved" I should have put across her chest on a onesie to protect all the unsuspecting graduate students.) Jonathan is even more easy going.  And his smile lights up a room.  His cute shy way of burying his head when you say his name -- it's endearing.  He's cute. And easily portable.

Viability and resuscitation - the difficult case of the 23 weeker

There is a reason the dates on this blog don't match up.  I tried to write this for yesterday. I couldn't get it done. I wanted this to be said, but didn't think I could say it well. This is a hard subject, and at this point I'm not sure that spending another year on it will make it any better, so I'll give this my best go.

-------------------------------

A year ago today, July 3, 2013, I was just learning what each week of pregnancy meant.  I was going beyond the "24 weeks marks viability" rule of thumb and trying to find stories of what delivery before that could mean.

Every blog I came across gave me hope - at first.  The baby was born at less than 24 weeks. The baby was small.  The baby had lived a week!  Then another!  But then, less than three months later, and the baby blog ended with bereavement.  Do a search for "micro preemie clothes" and you'll find more places to buy baby funeral suits and gowns than onsies or sleepers.

In the end I decided this baby needed to make it to twenty eight weeks. Twenty four weeks is the time at which a baby has a fifty percent chance of survival, and that was too tenuous for me. Before twenty four doctors wonder if it is worth the pain to the parents and the child to resuscitate, hope for life, and then lose the child weeks or months later, with the child only having lived a monitor and intubated life, sometimes without the parents being able to even hold the fragile being until the last moments. Risk of life-long disability is high.

Perhaps comfort care, letting the baby spend the time in mom and dad's arms until baby passes peacefully, is, in the case of these earliest micro-preemies, the most humane course to take. In the end, if the hospital is equipped for babies born before 24 weeks, the doctors give total choice to the parents.  They explain the odds, they explain the risks for long-term disability, and then they let us choose.

When we asked directly our NICU doctor, in the pre-delivery consult, said most -- 80 to 90 percent of parents of 23 weekers that he sees -- choose to resuscitate. That means some choose comfort care instead.  And while our NICU was prepared to work with 23 weekers, many NICUs are not.Thus, in other areas, we may not have been given a choice about resuscitation. Even a decade ago in our area letting the one pound baby go would have been the only course of action.

-----------------------------

Today July 3, 2013  a colleague received this book (Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence by David Benatar) in the mail.  A well-argued work that says maybe it'd be best if we hadn't been born.  Thus, we wouldn't have ever been harmed. Here are a few excerpts from the introduction:

"Although the good things in one's life make one's life go better than it otherwise would have gone, one could not have been deprived by their absence if one had not existed. Those who never exist cannot be deprived. However, by coming into existence one does suffer quite serious harms that could not have befallen one had one not come into existence." (1).

For biological and psychological reasons we overestimate how good life is and so think that life is better than non-life. While life might not be better or worse than non-existence, coming into existence, he argues, is always bad. Thus, we are all unlucky.

"It is curious that while good people go to great lengths to spare their children from suffering, few of them seem to notice that the one (and only) guaranteed way to prevent all the suffering of their children is not to bring those children into existence in the first place" (6).

Get it?

We started discussing the book.  "So, my decision of a year ago would have been an easy one for him to make," I said.

"Well, probably not," my coworker replied, "because at that point, your baby was viable, so he might have argued that more harm would be done if he weren't resuscitated than if he were."

"Except that he wasn't viable," I said.

Alright, clearly he WAS "viable," (able to live outside the womb), because he lived.  But he was not yet to 24 weeks -- the cut-off point for medical professionals and the law.  So to this author -- I think he would have said don't save a baby at 23 weeks gestation. He doesn't quite exist yet, so let's keep it that way.  

Moreover, while all people are likely to have more harm done as a result of being born than not being born, given that a severely premature baby is likely to suffer even MORE harm than a term baby, and with less than 50% chance of survival, even if everything is done, you are sending the child to certain misery with only slim chance of experiencing anything but pain.

I have run across a handful of people on the internet that argue that we (or people like us) were making a selfish choice to resuscitate because we didn't want to lose our son. "One can never have a child for that child's sake" Benatar states (p. 2), so we are self-interested parties.

A parent of a 23 weeker brings their child into existence at the cusp of possibility knowing that the road ahead will be painful. The chances, as best as they are now known, are laid out for us. Most of us parents of micro-preemies are choosing to give a chance of life to our child, knowing that he or she may be disabled and knowing that even if all our dreams for our child are fulfilled, our lives will be severely disrupted as a result of his or her prematurity.

Our family is one of the "best case" scenarios, and a year out we are still struggling to figure out how to make all pieces of our life work.  One could argue that even so we were self-interested in our decision last year. And while it is true that we did not want to grieve his loss (because to us he did exist), his continued existence teaches us selflessness in a way his nonexistence couldn't have.  His life now is more joy than pain, and as he does not remember the surgeries and pokes, I contend that his existence is not so bad after all.

I know I cannot convince Benatar of my decision, but let's put that aside.

I am writing this post to give voice to the many sides of the micro-preemie question.  Benatar's position refers to all existence and thus is extreme to most people, but it gets at utilitarian arguments. End of life decisions are hard no matter when they come. They are very hard when we have to make them at the beginning.

Again, the choice to resuscitate a 23 weeker isn't a clear-cut choice.  Most of us parents are optimistic fools and chose to say "resuscitate," but the odds are against these kids. I have seen one who, while admitting she loved her micro-preemie, has questioned that choice to resuscitate. Most of us give the kids a fighting chance, and few of us regret it. But it's important to point out the difficulty and complexity of that choice.

While I want this blog to give hope, while I want others to find that story of the 23 weeker who survived (because a year ago I could not) I also want to be honest.

The road is hard.  The path is uncertain. Please, friends, family and strangers, use this blog to offer hope, but don't use it as "proof" that everything will be okay. Only one thing is certain: it will be very hard. No matter what choice a parent makes at the beginning, no matter what the road ahead looks like for the preemie, difficulty is a near certainty. It is also nearly certain that your micro-preemie's path will be unlike any other preemie. You simply can't predict.

So, with all the odds against these littlest ones, is it worth it?  In my case, I say "yes."

Unlike David Benatar, I think even a difficult road is better than no road at all. This comes, I am sure, from my religious convictions. Humans are in the image of God no matter their shape, size or ability. It is sometimes hard. For many people it is harder than not. That said, we are not here to be pleasure seekers. Non-existence, on the other hand, means that one is formless. So a utilitarian argument of this sort falls on deaf ears here.

Not that I am not a bit utilitarian, if I'm honest with myself.  There is a point at which it makes sense to sign a DNR (do not resuscitate) order, but to me that point is far from the point we were at last year. DNR is a great option for terminal disease at the end of life, when it is clear there is only one possible outcome. Jonathan's life was just beginning, and the path forward was yet unclear. Giving my child a chance was worth the risk to him and us of a nearly guaranteed life of greater pain. As this story unfolds, you'll see that despite the greater pain, we have also been given greater joy because of this little guy. As he grows, we too grow. This is a good life. And in the end,

Scars

It is interesting that Better Never to Have Been comes across my desk a year and eight surgeries after we made the choice to give JAM a chance to be. The decision we made has brought unexpected stress and suffering, but we do not regret that decision for a moment. Happiness studies show that nearly all babies, not just preemies bring more stress and unhappiness to parents lives than joy.  So why are any of us having children?  My children may not make me happier, but they do make me better.

First scar (under shoulder) - 9 months after surgery

 I am extremely grateful that Jonathan is not likely to be emotionally scarred from the pain of the past year.  While his physical scars will grow with him, even those scars are starting to fade.

Independence

Happy Independence Day.

My bed turned to see the window

A year ago today Steve's mom was in town.  So, as noted before, were my friends Elizabeth and family.  We'd never managed to have the back yard barbeque we'd planned for a week earlier, but my hospital bed overlooked the river and the nurses said we'd get a decent view of the fireworks.

So we all crowded in to the hospital room (I'm sure breaking hospital policy on maximum occupancy) and celebrate the fourth. The girls brought sleeping bags to put on the floor so that the nurses wouldn't be so worried about germs. We'd learned quickly about the hospital's no sitting (or apparently licking off or crawling on) the floor policy.

By the way, did I mention Steve's mom was here? She stayed with us for the long haul, and made it possible for the girls to feel loved and Steve not to feel pulled. She kept us sane. She's a florist, so my hospital room was also always full of floral cheer. I was grateful. When doctors and nurses entered, I looked well-loved.

Staying off the hospital floor... sort of.

We enjoyed junk food and kids movies on TV. The girls didn't make it to the BIG fireworks show. Night comes too late here, and they were too tired, so they went home after the smaller pre-shows were complete. I was alone watching the big fireworks show from my room.  I suppose Jonathan was there, too, but I don't think he could even process sound yet, and so he missed the show.  Even I didn't make it through, though. Being on bedrest is exhausting, and watching a huge fireworks display outside your window when you are alone in a hospital bed just reminds you that you're alone in a hospital bed.  It's not as fun.

Girls with friend watching fireworks out hospital window

Getting used to bedrest

A year ago today, July 2, 2012, I calmly arranged work things from my hospital bed. I arranged to have an "away" sign put on the office door.  I am the only one who does my job, so I started negotiations with my bosses and HR to see if I could do some of my work from home or the hospital. One colleague outright refused to bring me ANY work and said instead she'd just come and visit  - and bring goodies for us to eat while watching movies.  Another volunteered with no hesitation to bring me in some files. I suspect because he wanted an excuse to also drop by and see how I was doing.

The work of arranging work, even though I didn't do much, was empowering.  I felt less hopeless, more in control.

Signs of labor had stopped, my bleeding was light. The doctors told me I would be on bedrest, either in the hospital or strict bed rest at home, until 34 weeks - the end of September. I was finding ways to make it all manageable.

In other moments I was still reeling from the dramatic shift from a normal healthy pregnancy to bedrest.  I wondered why my incompetent cervix (or preterm labor) didn't lead to a spontaneous delivery.  I wondered why, after two full term pregnancies, I was sitting in a hospital bed dilated with half the pregnancy to go.

About a year ago today I wrote this:

 I feel as though I ran straight off a cliff and on to a tightrope. The only reason I was running was that I didn't believe there was a cliff ahead of me. I was running on a rope 50 feet above the ground before I realized the cliff was there.

I keep glancing over my shoulder at that joint, that spot where the tightrope hits the cliff. My keeps head reeling with two questions: "How did that cliff get there?" and "How did I manage to run straight on to a tightrope?" The truth is, statistically speaking, I should neither have had a cliff on my path nor a tightrope to save my fall. I should either still be running on solid ground, or I should have fallen off the cliff I didn't see. This is what happens to most people.

I slow and the rope steadies. I am angry at the cliff for being there, grateful for the tightrope for appearing, and steadying myself for the long rope ahead.

I was so grateful to my OBGYN for encouraging me to go in to labor and delivery to be checked out.  And now that contractions were slowing, maybe I'd be able to make it another month or two or three.  Maybe I could have this baby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2013 
July 2, 2013 Today I went for a one mile run with my six year old, because we could. Since about a year ago, she looks for every chance she can to hang out with me. It seems nothing is more special to her than mommy time. I'm humbled, and sad at what brought about this change in her personality. Jonathan's journey was hard on us all.

JAM is about 13.5 lbs.  He hasn't been growing well over the last two months.  I guess his diagnosis as "failure to thrive" has some merit. I still hate the term.  He's thriving, can't you see??

Because of his surgery last week, he's a little more restless, so we've been waking up in the middle of the night again to comfort him and sneak in even more food.

This picture is from a bit over a week ago, from just days before the last surgery. Jonathan, 11 months old, chatting with the college kids.

Painless contractions and wordless groaning

A year ago today, July 1, 2012 my OBGYN walked into my hospital room.  It was good to see a familiar face.  "I can't believe you're here" she said, as she sat at the foot of my bed, "I was sure that they wouldn't need to admit you."

"So was I," I replied, "I thought this was just like last pregnancy."  The last pregnancy I had  had to be checked no less than a half dozen times due to false labor.  I'd come to believe that all labor before 36 weeks, in my body at least, was false.  Seems I'm really good at faking myself out.

"I heard you chose to go for the circlage" she said, "A risky choice, but I would have done the same thing."

She explained to me how things would work from here on out, how I'd be followed by the MFM (maternal fetal medicine) doctors and by her office, and how she would defer to the MFM doctors.  They were the experts on high risk pregnancies, so they were now running the show.

She left and, even though it was Sunday, I started notifying work and family of my situation via email. I was on bed-rest now. I didn't know for how long. No one had really talked about that. I didn't know of anyone who had been in my situation and then was allowed to walk around a week later like all was normal.  I assumed I was in this for the long haul, for a few months at least. "We won't keep you past delivery." the MFM doctor had said when I asked him about it, "We'll take it a day at a time."  An obvious statement, but maybe it was to give me some hope. I was stuck for a bit, but this would end, eventually. Later was better than earlier.

Despite being on bed-rest, things weren't boring. Doctors and nurses came in to check on me regularly. I was still contracting off and on. I was monitored carefully and so was the baby. I pressed a button every time I felt a contraction as my uterus was still too small for the machine to pick them up most of the time. Sometimes I wasn't quite sure if it was a contraction or not. We went for ultrasounds regularly to check the cervix and make sure the baby was okay.

At one ultrasound, the technician said, "are you feeling anything right now?"

"It's a maybe-contraction," I said, "I don't think I'd count it if I were counting."

"No," she said, "it's a real contraction.  Look at what your body is doing."

I looked at the screen and watched as the top half of my cervix, the part that wasn't sewn shut, grew perceptibly with the barely perceptible ache.  That little tiny contraction produced THAT dramatic of a shift? "The top is four centimeters dilated when you contract."

And that was a contraction that I thought didn't count.  Wow.  This was the groaning of childbirth?  My soul groaned more than my body with each contraction.  This is not the birth experience I wanted.

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TODAY, a year later, I spend much of the morning praying for another family.  Their child was born a micro-preemie, like mine. That child is still in the hospital almost six months after delivery, with no "go home" date in sight, and they're on my heart.  I do not give much detail on purpose. Their story is not mine to share.

All that said, I learned something this year. I learned that though I had ideas of what my child needed, God gave to praying friends details of unseen needs.  So many times I'd have a friend send me a note that said, "I'm praying for his heart" or "I'm praying for his lungs" and I'd think, "Why his heart?  It's his kidneys I'm worried about" or "Why his lungs?  He's doing great on the vent, I just want to know if he's going to be able to digest food!"  And then a few days later it was clear that the very organ that had been put on that person's heart was truly what needed work at that time.

So, without knowing more details, please pray for this micro-preemie that is still in the hospital.  God leads, surrounds us, and works through prayers.

This was one of many lessons I learned through my micro-preemie.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.  - Romans 8:22-27