I remember very vividly the morning that the NICU doctor called and said we needed to come as soon as possible.  We were staying with my parents because I’d only been out of the hospital for 2 days.  Josh was leaving for work, so it was about 7:15am.  They called his cell phone, talked to him, and then he said, “ok, I’m going to let you tell my wife what you just said.”  He handed me the phone and the doctor talked to me about some details that I don’t remember, and after he said goodbye and I said goodbye, I heard him say to one of the nurses, “She doesn’t get it.”

Oh, I got it.  The dream that I’d had since I was a little girl carrying my baby everywhere I went was now crashing all around me.  I could see it shattering, yet I couldn’t feel any of it.  In fact, I had not felt much of anything except absolute gripping fear since I woke up in the hospital the preceding Thursday.  Fear that honestly made me wish that I had not even made it through.  Fear that made me contemplate taking one too many pain pills… or 5.

As I turned around and walked in to wake my parents and ask them to go with us, and Josh headed up the stairs for a quick shower, all my strength failed me.  I remember falling in to their bed and crying, “We need to go now.”  Someone helped me up the stairs and quietly helped me get some clothes on.  I wore a white golf shirt and khaki capris.

It felt like it took an eternity to get to the hospital that morning.  By the time we got there, I think Josh’s Mom and Step-Mom were getting there.  I knew this was the last time I’d visit that room because I saw that they had moved Abby’s roommate to another area and put up a privacy screen.  They had no limit on how many people could be in the NICU with us that morning, and the incubator was open.

Tina, our precious nurse that spent so much time with Abby, explained to me that Abby had emphysema.  Small holes had formed in the tissue of her lungs because there was no elasticity in the tissue (from being premature).  We knew this was the case and as the ventilator expanded the lungs and then allowed them to retract, there was a possibility of damage.  They switched her back and forth from a conventional vent to an oscillator, which kept a constant stream of air puffing into the lungs.  She would do well on one for a while and then they’d have to switch her and she’d do well on it, and so on.

The NICU staff basically told us we’d have to make a decision to take her off life support.  Neither Josh nor I were prepared for that.  We weren’t prepared for any of it, but at least we thought if she died she would do it on her own.  So we sat there.  For a long time.  We held hands and touched our precious angel while parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents watched from behind us.  Finally, I said, “if she’s going to die I’m going to hold her.”  The only contact we’d been able to make with her prior to that day was to touch her tiny hand through the holes in the incubator.  That day, the incubator was open, and we were able to keep our hands on her, touch her head and hands and feet.  About the time I said that, her sats started to improve and the nurses all perked up.  One of the girls said, “she’s pretty stable, so let’s not move her just yet.  If she starts to go down hill again, we’ll get her out and let you hold her.”

By this time we’d been in that room for about 3 hours.  I had a horrible headache and was feeling sick, so we decided to take a break for a minute and walk downstairs for a drink.  Before we could complete our order, Josh’s cell phone was ringing from the NICU.  We went straight back upstairs and when I walked in, they were taking her out of the incubator.  They handed her to me and I sat there in amazement.  She was TINY.  I mean, I had seen her, but holding her made it even more amazing.  One pound, Three ounces, 11 inches long.  Yet every inch was perfectly formed- he fingers, toes, little nose and beautiful lips… I guess I was in denial and asked how long it would be before she passed, and the nurse said, “as soon as we turn off the vent.  She’s already gone- her brain has no activity.”  By then, there wasn’t really a decision to make, and the nurses started taking her wires and tubes out.  I held her the whole time, with Josh’s hands on mine.  Many people in that room prayed, they kissed her head, my Dad laid his hands on her and dedicated her to the Lord, and Josh and I quietly sat there and just looked.

Suddenly, Josh said, “baby, sing to her.”  I shook my head, but at the same time, I started to sing, “Jesus loves me this I know…”  The vent stopped and so did the heaving of her tiny chest, and we all just sat there.

There really is peace in knowing Jesus.  There were (are) many times that I still get angry.  Not so much at God, but at the whole plan.  The forbidden fruit, the curse of sin, the price of carnality.  You see, I believe that God doesn’t make bad things happen to people most of the time.  He just allows it to happen as consequences to our choices.  I can’t really think of a better plan, though, so I just have to accept it.  And the peace that comes from the Holy Spirit is absolutely out of this world.  It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it places a hope within your sorrow that you cannot know unless you’ve experienced it.

It may sound strange, but I cherish the memories I have of that day.  They were real and though they seemed to be the worst possible outcome, I believe I saw the very best of myself that day.  I saw my husband’s unbelievable courage as we comforted one another.  And I saw others put away differences and share sorrow in a very vulnerable and intimate way. 

I hope this wasn’t too tough on any of my readers (all 4 of you).  This may also sound crazy, but when you don’t think through the bad times, they tend to get hazy.  I don’t want them to get hazy because I don’t ever want to forget a single moment of that 10-day ordeal.  I hate that this had to happen, but I’m proud of it at the same time.  I am proud to say my daughter fought all odds for 6 days, that God helped us and was very near to us during all this, and I’m proud to say we made it through the aftermath.