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Introduction
I have to tell you about my recent passion. I became a mother of a perfect little boy. When my little man wakes me in the morning, I drag my feet to his crib-side. All four of our eyes open at the exact same time and from there on out we’re as if someone woke us with an air-horn. When he’s crying, my heart perpetually breaks open, and I’m stressed and achy and feeling all torn up, but then he’ll smile when I plead with him long enough; and it’s just in time to heal my heart and make it sing.
I had an inkling of an idea that the toughest job in the world would require more than staying home from work and a dose of Bayer every day. I did not know however, this day would come sooner than anticipated, and that we would bear an incredible burden along with the immense joy of a new baby.
The day we arrived to meet our boy at the 18-week sonogram, we named him Collin Kristopher. Collin-because it was a good, solid Irish name, and Kristopher after my late brother. Collin means “victor”, or “victory under pressure”. Kristopher means, “like Christ”. We had no idea the immense bearing his name would come to mean to us. Moments after we named him we came to discover something was wrong. His tummy was the size of his head. We were told his urethra was partially closed by a PUV. P…U…V…. Those were the initials that haunted my nights for months before we would hold our precious son. Posterior Urethral Valve. His bladder didn’t know where else to send his urine, so although some miraculously escaped his body and cushioned his amniotic sac, a good portion of it refluxed right back up his ureters and into his kidneys.
That first day, we were told so many different things. “He may not make it the full 9 months, or if he does make it, his kidneys may not work and you might lose him. You can try starting over again now and consider this pregnancy invalid, unviable”. Then we heard more reassuring words, “You’ll probably have to deliver him early”; We were told that 34 weeks was a safe age, and it was one we aimed for throughout the pregnancy. Collin was let me know he was there, full of life.
Day in, day out, the thump, under my rib-cage, my hip-bone…is my son. He will not die… the Word was there reminding me over and over again. “He will not die…but live to declare the wondrous works of the LORD.” I know this isn’t everyone’s destiny, but I heard the still soft voice over and over, telling me about my son.
He was born at week thirty, ten weeks early. I carried him inside me until I was six and a half months pregnant, and that day he came, April 5th, 2005. We planned c-section when we discovered all of his amniotic fluid was retained in Collin’s kidneys. Our uncle talked to my husband, Kevin, about what to expect; he had a preemie thirteen years ago. Six months ago, he was the only one we knew that had first-hand observed this awkward world inside the preemie family. There were going to be many ups and downs. They say for every couple of steps forward a preemie takes there is a step or two backward within a certain amount of time.
We waited, day after day, for the good news, the bad news, the in-between news that everyone wished was good news. The mother in me waited for monumental moments: for his first cry, for his eyes to open for the first time, for his sucking and swallowing reflexes. The mother in me became an instant nurse throughout all of this experience, and this nurse watched through the glass at our little baby ten hours a day; I scrutinized the urine output measurements, the lung x-rays, blood gas results, kidney function levels, renal ultrasounds; It was all too familiar. In the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit we waited for Collin to come off ventilators, for his fentanyl withdrawal to ease, we adjusted his feeding tubes, checked the chest tube suction. There were select people in the hospital that carried our burden with us, prayed for Collin, and believed with us, even in the direst of times. Most didn’t. Collin wanted to live, and many said he wouldn’t. Then they said he probably can’t, then they said he just might. He came home with us on May 20th, 2005.
Since Collin has come home we have endured and persevered through problems that many preemies and other NICU babies face. For over two months Collin was attached to his lung and monitor machines, day and night, both in the living room of our home. This four-foot wire and tube radius, of course, became my new bedroom. We have faced months of weight-gain issues, massive reflux, surgeries, emergency room visits, worried nights and medicine fights with the baby. We have been given the grace to cope through it all, moment by moment, step by step, and day by day.
What I have gained and achieved as a mother, I could not, and would not replace with any other memory. I am meeting several families who share similar circumstances with me, being the mother of a NICU baby. I’m sure there will be several differences among the moms I meet, but I hope this will make our story richer. I have similar routines and rituals as I bet many of them do. I have slowly accomplished little feats, getting my son to smile, bearing the badge of emesis upon the shoulder of all my shirts, routinely mastering the stain-fighting talent of removing emesis from all clothing, and frequently learning new terms, such as emesis.
I prayed. As did our immediate family, our extended family, our church family, friends, and people I had never met; prayer requests had reached as far as China, Germany and Turkey, mostly from e-mail updates we began far before Collin’s birth. God has proven to us over and over that Collin’s life has always been valuable; He loves all life. When Collin smiles, he gives us this message. His eyes light up; his eyebrows heighten as if he is trying to lift everyone’s spirits with them. He’s going to be, and has been on a mission since he moved in to our family.
I’ve been home for the past several months, studying the triumphs, successes and major coups Collin takes in so much detail. As a preemie mom I will be able to fully immerse myself into this little niche of motherhood, constantly challenging myself, trying to learn, stretching my understanding, and listening to others more than anything else. I hope Collin’s testimony, and my experiences will teach others about God’s healing hand, bringing them closer to a trusting relationship with Christ.
It is not only my belief, but it is evident that the man who saved Collin’s life saves many others… in many ways. I profess my faith and belief in God’s healing hand, his son, Jesus Christ’s resurrecting power, the prayer of His people and the Holy Scripture. God’s victorious hand in my son’s life is written in these following pages. You will read the initial e-mail that was sent to my good friend Alenna that opened up this journey. I’ve also included the words of encouragement I have received from others. In these pages you will discover some of my fears, concerns, doubts and frustrations; you will also read about the confirmations, the miracles, and my personal journey through this different kind of motherhood. Much of this story is told through my eyes. Sometimes a family member stepped in to share their side of the story. I have interviewed, and communicated with other moms and dads, nurses and doctors to help readers understand the life lived by a mom of an intensive care baby. This is our story of how God rescued our little boy, and our whole family. This is our story about how our son Collin began living his abundant life here on earth.
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