“You’re totally dilated.”

These are words a woman in labor longs to hear.  Words I had longed to hear in my three previous deliveries.  But, I wasn’t ready to hear them now; I was only six and a half months pregnant!

“Are you sure?” I asked.  “I can’t have this baby now, it’s too early.  Jon is not even here yet.  I can’t have this baby when his father isn’t here.”  My husband, Jon, was away seeing a specialist regarding a football injury.  “Please, Dr. Hinkle, do something,” I cried to her.

“We’ll do everything we can,” she assured me.  And off we raced down the hall, me on  a stretcher with my doctor and my mother and three nurses in tow.  It felt like a scene from the show ER, but this wasn’t pretend.  This was frighteningly real.

My life had been perfect, perfect as I knew it to be.  I was married to a man I loved, the mother of three healthy beautiful girls and now I was to be blessed with a son.  In my world; everything was perfect.  We were a happy, healthy loving family.

What had gone wrong?

My bed was inverted backwards so that gravity would be on my side and I was given medication to slow down, or hopefully stop my labor.  I was also given medication to help the development of my unborn son’s lungs, just in case he could not wait.

As my mother stood by my bedside praying, crying and frantically trying to reach Jon who was in an airport trying to get home.  I look to her for peace and comfort.  “Mom,” I said, “I would gladly give my life at this moment just to know that he will live.”

“Don’t say that,” she answered.  “If something happens to you then I would have lost my baby.”  At that moment I remembered she was a mother too, and here heart had to be breaking to watch her own baby suffer.

Because my body could no longer hold off the inevitable, within hours I was wheeled to the delivery room.  In my three previous deliveries we had taken pictures and videotaped the experience.  It had been a joyous atmosphere with laughter and tears.  But this time it was different, it was quiet and sterile.  There were no tears of joy, just tears.

When my son slipped into the world he tried to cry and I strained to hear his tiny voice, but he was quickly taken to the neonatal team that was close by.

When Jon arrived I was settled in my room, but one look into his eyes caused an outpouring of emotion.  “I’m sorry,” I cried.  “I’m sorry that I failed you and our son.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he assured me.  Then he wrapped his warm arms around me and just held me.  As we held each other, I knew this would be a life changing experience.

I cried a lot those three days while I was on the post partum floor.  I was constantly updated on my son’s condition and with every update I cried, whether good or bad.  And with every update Jon held me close.  He never left my side; he even slept in a chair pulled as close to the bed as possible.

Our side of the post partum floor was not buzzing with visitors squealing “Congratulations!”  Instead, there were just smiles from people who felt our anguish.  I never met the mother in the room next to mine, but I heard her sobs just as I am sure that she heard mine.  We were connected by the pain.

I left the hospital on the third day, but I left with only a teddy bear in my arms.  I kept telling myself how fortunate I was to know that my son was in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) and being taken care of by so many wonderful people.  But, my heart still hurt.