Defying the Odds

It was a routine doctor’s visit to check the progress of the baby. I sat in the cold doctor’s office waiting happily for my turn to see Dr. Ronald. There were so many round bellies around me and I couldn’t help but smile at the thought that I am finally one of those women who have the round belly. My mind started to wander back to nine months earlier when I sat in this very spot waiting for news of the baby.

            I was 6 months pregnant and so happy to be having a little boy. I walked into the doctor’s room and lay down in the chair. He squeezed the cold gel onto my stomach and began to check the progress of my perfect little boy. His brow creased and he began to frown. My hearted started racing and I couldn’t help but think “Oh no, not again…please not again!” Dr. Ronald turned to me and solemnly told me my son did not have a heartbeat.

            This was the second time I lost a child. Adrian was only 11 weeks along but that was the most painful thing that I had ever gone through…until this news. I didn’t cry, I didn’t yell, I sat there in silence trying to absorb the realization that I lost my beautiful son. I remember holding my 11 ounce baby looking at his beautiful face and his tiny hands. I remember longing to be with him and wished that God would take me right then and there.

            “Nicole Ochart?” The nurse calls expectantly, shaking me from my reverie. I look up and smile weakly. I was just over 6 months pregnant again, this time with a baby girl. I slowly follow the nurse through the hallways plastered with pictures of successfully births, children who are now five and six, playing happily and smiling for the camera.

            I make my way into the room and lay down on the chair. Today is the day that I get to see my daughter in a 3D ultrasound. My heart begins to race as the doctor squirts the cold sticky gel on my stomach. My mind begins to pray involuntarily that my baby is okay. I had a sinking nauseating feeling that something was wrong. I held my breath as the doctor began the ultrasound and closed my eyes praying softly.

            It was quiet for some time so I opened my eyes, already brimming with tears, and looked at Dr. Ronald helplessly. He meets my gaze and slowly explains that my daughter is not getting enough oxygen, and her heartbeat is not as strong as it should be. I take a deep breath, fighting back with everything I have not to scream and cry. ‘It’s happening again’ is all I could think.

            Dr. Ronald leads me out of the office where a woman is waiting with a wheel chair. He explains that I need to be admitted to the hospital and that I will most likely spend the rest of my pregnancy, no matter the outcome, in the hospital. I am wheeled through the double doors that separate the doctor’s office and the hospital. The ride to my hospital room seemed like it stretched on forever.

            The nurse wheels me into my room and I can vaguely hear her explaining to me what I am supposed to do and what is going to happen now, but it sounds as if I am in a tunnel and I cannot make out her words. I stare at her as she gently rubs my arm and helps lift me out of the chair, the sympathy on her face makes me angry and I pull away from her. She cautiously hands me a robe and instructs me to change.

            As she leaves the room with a final sympathetic glance at me, I numbly begin to disrobe. My mind is blank except for the one thought in my head telling me that I cannot go through this again. I cannot hold another still baby, I cannot miss the opportunity to watch my child grow, I cannot survive this. I lie down in my bed and stare at my hands which are twisted in my lap. My mother walks in and begins to stroke my hair and wipe my tears; I did not even know I was crying.

            Dr. Ronald comes in a while later and explains that I will have to be constantly hooked up to a machine that monitors the heartbeat and oxygen to make sure my baby is getting what she needs. I nod, taking everything in. As he steps back after hooking me up I feel her kick and the machine makes a loud thumping sound, every time she kicked I would hear that beautiful sound and I began to sob. How can I live without this child in my life? She is kicking and moving around, how can she not be okay?

            After the first day of my hospital stay the doctor comes in and tells me that I will need a C-section but since I am only 26 weeks along he wants to wait until at least 28 weeks to give her a better chance. I stare blankly at him, 28 weeks is not far enough along. Her lungs won’t be developed; she won’t survive, at least according to the paperwork he gave me and his explanation of how premature babies survive in and out of the womb. I clutch my stomach and begin praying that God will let me keep this little girl.

            Later that same morning the doctor comes in with a pained expression on his face. He tells me that I need to get the father of the baby here immediately because the C-section must happen now. My breathing quickens and I feel sick, this can’t be happening! How can this be happening? I quickly dial Greg’s phone number with shaky hands; I choke out the horrible news of what is going on and tell him he needs to get to the hospital immediately. As I sit back waiting for him and waiting for my C-section I begin to pray furiously, begging and pleading for a chance to be a mother.

            Once Greg is at the hospital they wheel me out of the room. I look at my mother who is trying to be strong for me, but I see the fear in her eyes. I begin to sob, I want my mother, I want to be a mother just like her, my sobs turn to howls as I round the corner and I can no longer see her.

            They insert a long needle in my back and as my body starts to disappear beneath me I get this calming feeling, like everything was going to be okay. I lay back quietly, relishing in this unexpected feeling. Out of nowhere Greg is standing beside me holding my hand. They begin the procedure and all I can see is Greg and his expressions. He looks sick, pale, I don’t know if it was the procedure itself, or the impending doom we think is coming.

            As I am contemplating his expression I hear a small squeaking sound and Greg begins to cry. That was my little girl, my baby squeaked, she made a noise. In an instant Greg leaves my side and I am alone waiting to hear something…anything. I ask repeatedly what is going on, and if she is okay but I do not get a response. I start to cry uncontrollably and beg for someone to tell me something. I feel as if my heart is going to explode, my throat is thick with the unshed tears that are fighting their way to the surface.

            After what seems like a million years a nurse walks over with my little girl wrapped up in a blanket. She looks so small and I cannot help but start crying all over again. “Hi baby.” Is all I can muster through my tears, and as the words leave my mouth she opens her eyes and looks at me. I am unraveled at that moment and I know God will not take her from me. My one pound three ounce baby is going to live a long and happy life.

            The second the procedure is over I am begging to see my baby. They wheel my bed into the NICU, she is so small and hooked up to so many machines. I am no longer crying because I am worried about my baby, because something in me knows that she will make it, she will pull through, I am crying because she is the most amazing thing I have ever seen.

            After a two and a half month stay my daughter Tamina came home. She still had a feeding tube, oxygen, and a heart monitor, but she was home and healthy. Tamina is now almost five years old and is the most intelligent and amazing person I have ever met. She is perfect in every way and has no complications from being so premature. She defied the odds and continues to prove everyone who ever said she wouldn’t make it or that she would have problems later, wrong. She is strong and independent and I couldn’t ask for a better blessing than to have her as my daughter.