Those moments in life you’re sure will never happen to you.

The plan for several weeks had been to have the baby on November 3rd. My original due date was November 22nd, but due to the size of me, the size of my baby, and sufficient pleading with Dr Ayad we moved the date to the 3rd. I would go in sometime that morning, he’d do his ‘magic move’ to induce me without medication and all would be well. That’s what was supposed to happen.

Wade and I went with some friends to a movie Saturday night the 2nd. I had been having fairly steady contractions throughout the day and wondered if I was in the early stages of labor. By the time we got out of the movie at 11 PM, I was convinced I was in labor. Not yet strong, or far enough along to go to the hospital, but things were definitely moving in the right direction. We went home and went to bed and the contractions tapered off. The next day I went as planned to see Dr Ayad around 3:00. He confirmed that I was indeed in labor, he’d do his magic and that would pick things up. “Go walk around,” he said, “I want you to be at the hospital around 5, I’ll be there around 6.” So the Mr. and I went to grab some Pinkberry and kill and hour and half. By the time we were leaving the mall, I was in full on labor. Manageable pain, but they were coming strong and steady. By the time we got to the hospital I could barely breathe and was quickly abandoning any idea’s of going sans epidural. For the third time. I don’t know why I thought with each pregnancy it’d be worth a shot to try it without. But this go around would be different, little did I know my baby was going to be here in about 50 minutes and an epidural wasn’t even going to be an option. I was wheeled into a delivery room alone, as Wade was finishing up admittance paper work. Things started unraveling fast. My contractions were coming with such speed and intensity I could barely get a breath in. I had about 10-15 seconds in between each contraction to try and recover before I went reeling again. I don’t know that I could effectively describe the level of pain I was experiencing. A nurse tried to give me gas, but I couldn’t even focus long enough to keep the nozzle in my mouth. I remember screaming. I remember grabbing Wade’s shirt in my fist. I remember feeling like I was sopping wet, sweat nearly soaking my hair. I remember a nurse trying to get an IV in my hand and it killing, I remember begging for an epidural and not getting a straight answer as to why I couldn’t get one and I remember shouting for someone to help me. “Why can’t someone help me?!!” About 6:10, Dr Ayad walked into the room and I felt an immense relief, finally, someone that could help me. The scene in that delivery room seemed to me utter chaos. I was a wreck, every bit the crazy, lunatic woman from the movies. Dr. Ayad was the calming influence I was in desperate need of. He communicated to me what no one else had been able too. I was at 8 centimeters, I had progressed really, really quickly, there was going to be no time for an epidural. “The baby is coming Kate. You need to quit shouting. It’s not helping. Every time you feel like you need to shout, I need you to push, ok?” I was scared, I was in pain and I was anxious. But I did as he told me. I pushed through three contractions and Whitt was out. And then, what came next, was chapter one in my very worst nightmare, I thought I was at the end, turns out I was barely through the prologue.

Something wasn’t right. The moment I saw him, something wasn’t right. Dr. Ayad was holding him by his feet, his head down, patting his back. My baby was silent. And gray. “Take him!” I heard Dr. Ayad say. “Is he ok? Is he ok?”, I asked. I looked at my new baby, I looked at Wade. No one anwsered me. I looked at Wade again. “What’s going on?” He was going to start crying any second. He would. Right? I remember telling Wade to go to him, see what was happening. I remember Dr. Ayad finishing up with me, distracted and every 30 seconds shouting for an update. And then I remember him shouting, “Intubate him! Intubate him.” I went internal pretty quickly after that. I felt numb and powerless. I felt like time had stopped. I remember a neo-natalogist entering the room. I remember Dr. Ayad getting up and walking over to check on the baby and then walking to the corner of the room to sit down. No one was talking to me. Wade was walking back and forth between our baby and my bedside, grabbing my hand each time he returned. After sometime they took our baby boy from the room, telling me they’d be taking him to the NICU. I told Wade to go with him. He still hadn’t taken a breath. An oxygen machine was breathing for him. Dr. Ayad stood up and came to my bedside. He told me he was shattered. Shattered. “Inshallah, things will be ok.” He patted my shoulder and told me he had gotten the name of the neo-natalogist, he would call him and get an update. “You call me anytime.” He walked out of the room and I was alone. Wade gone with our baby. The nurses stepped out. And I was alone, with sweat drenched hair, on blood stained sheets, staring at the wall almost incapable of even crying. I felt hollow.

Those next few days would prove to be a rollercoaster of worry and emotion. I went from feeling peace and calm to heartache and devastation. Optimism to feeling like there was a black hole inside me growing ever larger. I kept my tears largely to myself and sometimes to Wade, but truth be told, never really allowed myself a good solid tearful breakdown. I had a newborn in the NICU, two children at home, a husband running around like a crazy person trying to be two places at once and a body to heal and recover so I could take care of my family. There was too much to be strong for. Plus, I was worried that if I allowed myself to start weeping, really weeping I’d never be able to stop. I feel very much that I was carried by a compassionate Father in Heaven those first critical days. I felt the support and prayers of friends and family that were praying for Whitt and our family the world over, in a very real way. I have little doubt, that their faith in addition to ours and the mercy and grace of my Heavenly Father saved Whitt’s life. While it was terrifying and there are still many unanswered questions, I shudder to think of the tragedy it could have been. The most meaningful aspect of the Atonement  for me has always been it’s redeeming power. The ability it gives us to correct our misdeeds and make things right again. With those we’ve wronged and with our Heavenly Father. But those first few weeks of November, I came to better understand the portion when our Savior takes upon him our heartbreaks, our tears, our trials and as a result develops an ability to succor us in desperate times in a way few really can, because he’s been there. He’s felt it, he’s experienced it, he wept and pleaded just we wept and pleaded. There haven’t been very many instances in my life when I have felt like all the variables surrounding a situation were totally out of my control, where I had no other option other than to pray, to plead and then to take a deep breath and step back and place my trust in the system. It’s an incredibly frightening and vulnerable place to be and I hope to not find myself there often, but the gratitude I have in knowing that I’m not in that place alone would be difficult to describe.

Whitt’s going to be ok. I can with a humble and tearful confidence say he’s going to come out on top. What a perfect little gift he is. He already has a strength of spirit many take years to develop. I feel terribly inadequate to be his mother. A good friend sent me the following poem days after Whittman was born.

Good Timber

The tree that never had to fight

For sun and sky and air and light,

But stood out in the open plain

And always got its share of rain,

Never became a forest king

But lived and died a scrubby thing.

 

The man who never had to toil

To gain and farm his patch of soil,

Who never had to win his share

Of sun and sky and light and air,

Never became a manly man

But lived and died as he began.

 

Good timber does not grow with ease;

The stronger the wind, the stronger the trees;

The further the sky, the greater length;

The more the storm, the more the strength.

By sun and cold, by rain and snow,

In trees and men good timbers grow.

 

Where thickest lies the forest growth,

We find the patriarchs of both.

And they hold counsel with the stars

Whose broken branches show the scars

Of many winds and much of strife.

This is the common law of life. 

 

I regret that my sweet baby boy had to meet such fierce winds and mighty storms so early in his life, but dare I say better now, than never. His fighting spirit will be a force on this earth, of that I am sure. And the army to back him up is fierce and large.