Today, I want to place an "Ebenezer stone" to remember God's faithfulness...
When my son was born, it was complicated. The whole pregnancy was complicated. Round after round of fertility drugs preceded that beautiful positive pregnancy test. But the bleeding just a few weeks later stopped my celebrating. As I laid in the bed, praying for the bleeding to stop, I held my breath.
When my blood pressure shot up at 15 weeks and they made me go back on bed rest for a week, I prayed that the numbers would come down. I stared at the ceiling and cried. And I held my breath.
At 18 weeks, I had an ultrasound and the blond woman smiled as the cold jelly spread across my growing belly. "It's a boy!" she said. I'll never forget the look on my husband's face. Our celebration was short lived, when the doctor came in and said "He has 4 cysts on his brain." I held my breath.
Time passed. I enjoyed being up and moving as my blood pressure was normal again and the bleeding had slowed, though not stopped. I prayed those cysts would just disappear. At 23 weeks, I got very upset over something that happened at church. I witnessed a woman become very angry at my husband. I stood in the next room sobbing as she spent twenty minutes screaming at him, telling him how to be a preacher, like God had given her the guide book. And then, when my belly tightened in that first contraction, I held my breath.
When the second contraction came, and then a third, and then a fourth, I knew something was wrong. They came and went, sometimes lasting for a few seconds, other times lasting much longer. I brushed it off as braxton hicks until the next night. I was watching Ally slide on the church playground. The setting sun made her blond hair almost glow around her tiny shoulders. And then the pain came and I sucked in sharply, trying to mask my fear with a smile. But I held my breath as we called the doctor.
Lying in the hospital bed, with monitors hooked to my belly, I tried to be calm. They could barely find a heartbeat and keep it on the monitor because he was still so tiny. They gave me one medication, then another, and another, until the contractions slowed down. Bed rest became all I knew. My husband became both mom and dad to our toddler daughter. My job, he told me, was to simply be an incubator and keep his son inside for a little while longer. So I laid in the bed, reading my Bible, crocheting for hours, and I held my breath.
Twenty-eight weeks was a celebration! We were past the viability markers and our son was still safe in my belly, which was only contracting sporadically. But two days later, another visit to the hospital left us emotionally drained again. More contractions, more medications, this time steroid shots for his tiny lungs. I listened to the whooshing sound of his heart on the monitors, day and night. It was a lullaby that brought me comfort as I begged God to let him stay inside another hour, another day. And as I waited, I held my breath.
Home again, still on bed rest, the 30 week mark came and went. A few days later, I woke up on top of wet sheets. I could barely see through the tears. My water had broken. The big puddle on the bed was proof. Sheets went into the washing machine and we headed to the hospital again. The nurse was grumpy. She wasn't in the mood to deal with patients that night. Looking back, I should have asked for someone different, but I was too scared to fight. She used a swab and it turned bright blue, giving proof that my water had indeed broken or at least leaked. "That can't be right" said the irritable nurse. She took a cloth and wiped me down, wiping away every trace of the amniotic fluid. Then quickly she brushed my skin with another swab, this time watching in delight as it didn't change. "There. I told you things were fine," she said smugly. They sent me home, despite my tears. I knew something was wrong, but they wouldn't listen. They gave me a sleeping pill and made me go home to bed. During the car ride home, the pill took effect and colors swirled together as sleep took over my worried mind. But I still held my breath.
Over the next two weeks, I had repeated ultrasounds as I felt my waters continue to leak. Each time, they measured the amniotic fluid. The numbers got lower, lower, and lower. My baby boy stopped growing and the ultrasound technician said "Intrauterine growth restriction" was the diagnosis. My doctor was out of town. The doctor on call was in no mood to deliver a baby. She tried to brush me off as I wept over my concerns. The ultrasound tech whispered words to my husband that I will never forget. "If that was my baby, I would refuse to go home. Your baby is in a lot of danger. You need to insist that they do something." I held my breath. Looking back, I couldn't have exhaled even if I wanted to.
So we camped out in the doctor's office, talking to anyone who would listen. We finally sat in front of an angry doctor. She accused us of being selfish. She told me that I was wrong. She said I would regret my decision and that she would not accept liability. I was unwavering. I knew in my heart my baby was going to die if we didn't do something. He barely moved within me as I said through tears, "Induce me today. I'm not negotiating with you anymore." She read me statistics about prematurity. And I recited my own research about stillbirths. She gave me statistical reasons why my baby should be fine if we waited another week. I gave her 10 minutes to have me admitted to the hospital. I was on the verge of calling an attorney. I held my breath.
When we got to the hospital, monitors revealed what I knew to be true. My baby was struggling. Already in labor when we arrived, they didn't need to do much to "induce" anything. I was shaking, scared, and angry at the careless doctor. My baby boy's heart rate would dive lower with each contraction. They moved me from side to side, tried internal monitors, and finally broke my water to speed things up. Very little water trickled out. They were wrong. My waters had been leaking for weeks. As the doctor wouldn't make eye contact with me in that moment, I knew that she knew. And my baby's heart rate dipped again. And I held my breath.
The pain came fast and hard. The tried an epidural, but it didn't take effect until too late to matter. I pushed. I prayed. I pushed. I prayed. I pushed again and they said "He's here." He cried a little, once they unwrapped the cord from his neck. It was around his little throat three times. The nurse's eyes were wide. The doctor was somber. I held my breath.
They let me kiss him before they whisked him to the NICU. "He's fine" is all anyone would tell me. Josh had seen him struggling to breathe in the NICU and then they made him leave. His eyes were wide and his color pale. I knew it was bad. Was it all my fault? Did I hurt my baby by asking for him to be delivered? Should I have asked for meds to stop the labor again? Had I made a horrible mistake? "God, please spare my son!" I begged. And I held my breath.
The doctor hugged me before she left for the night. "I'm sorry" she whispered in my ear. Her eyes said it all. The doctors at my practice had made a grave mistake when they didn't deliver my son weeks earlier, when I first woke up with the puddle in my bed. He wouldn't have made it another day in my exposed, infected womb. She knew it. I knew it. I held my breath.
Five hours later, they wheeled me to the NICU to see him. With a ventilator breathing for him and tubes covering his tiny little body, I could barely see him through the tears that blurred my eyes. "Dear God, be near." I held my breath.
Two weeks later, miracle and miracle had been given to my little family. He was breathing, eating, sleeping without apnea, and finally allowed to come home. The reason for his horrible start in this world? Sepsis. Infection. Because sometimes doctors should listen to their patients. Because sometimes a mother's instinct is right. But I thought of all the medications he had in the NICU. I watched as he struggled to gain weight and catch up with other babies his age. And I held my breath.
Seven months later, RSV tried to choke the life out of my little miracle boy. In the hospital again, I had to hold him down for x-rays. He cried. I cried. Breathing treatment after breathing treatment passed the time. Asthma was diagnosed. His NICU records were revisited by respiratory therapists and pediatricians. More antibiotics were given for a bacterial infection still lingering in his little lungs. I held my breath.
As his first birthday came and went, we celebrated our miracle. I was so thankful, so blessed to have my sweet boy. But he was delayed. Sitting late. Crawling late. Six months later, when he finally took a step at 18 months old, I held my breath.
His second birthday came and went this past spring. He knew a few words, but had a hard time saying them. My little boy was full of energy, but sometimes quiet and antisocial around strangers. His developmental delays concerned me. A family doctor asked lots of questions, did a big exam, and mention a word that nearly shattered me: autism. I held my breath.
We had to wait six months for a follow up appointment before we would know any more. Family members said things like "Is he not talking yet?" or "Do you think something's wrong?". They were only concerned but with each question, I felt like my world was shattering. Was it my fault? Had I failed my baby boy? Would he be sentenced to a life of special needs because I wasn't able to carry him to term? I held my breath.
A month ago, we saw a new pediatrician. He did another evaluation in the office. He had seen "autism" mentioned as a possibility in my little boy's records. He studied him. He asked him questions. He asked him to draw pictures and repeat words. Walker gave him a crooked smile and ignored him. The doctor wrote a referral for a developmental specialist so we could get a diagnosis. I held my breath.
This morning, as I drove Walker to his appointment with the specialist, I thought about all the things we have been through. Fertility treatments, bleeding, preterm labor, growth restrictions, cysts on his brain, respiratory failure, feeding tubes, RSV. It's overwhelming if I put the last two and a half years into an orderly little sequence of events. As I sat in the waiting room, watching Walker play with puzzles, I considered the past 30 months. I have not really let out my breath in that entire time. I've spent every single moment of my son's life waiting on the next bomb, hoping I'd survive the next round of devastation. Just begging God that we'd get through it all in one piece. I considered it all as Walker was tested. They asked him questions. They watched him play with blocks. They asked him about colors and shapes. They wanted him to count and name animals. They watched him draw and run and jump and climb stairs. Through it all, I held my breath.
Two hours later, they called me into a little room. Two specialists, a pediatrician and a speech therapist, sat with me at a little table. I tried to smile and turn off my anxiety. "So?" I asked.
They started going over papers and numbers and figures and developmental milestones. I tried to listen but I was waiting on one thing. I needed to know for sure. Was he okay? Did my son have autism? Had the other two doctors been right? What was life going to be like for my precious little boy? I held my breath.
The woman in charge of our meeting must have sensed what was happening in my mind. She stopped and smiled at me gently. Quietly, she said, "Mrs. Benge, he's fine."
No autism.
No learning disabilities.
No hearing loss.
No vision problems.
Where doctors once pronounced curses, God used this woman to pronounce blessings. She started talking again and I tried not to cry. I held my breath.
He is smart.
His attention span is great.
He is intelligent.
He can count. He knows colors.
He is speaking well.
His speech delays are only a problem with his mouth and a pesky little overbite. It will all correct itself in the next few months as he grows more.
He needs no therapy.
There will be no more follow up.
No autism.
No learning disabilities.
No long term consequences for his difficult start in life.
I carried my little boy out to the car and buckled him safely in his car seat. I started driving home as he sang to himself in the back seat. I was about half way home when it happened.
For the first time in over three years, I finally exhaled.
Praise God!
When my son was born, it was complicated. The whole pregnancy was complicated. Round after round of fertility drugs preceded that beautiful positive pregnancy test. But the bleeding just a few weeks later stopped my celebrating. As I laid in the bed, praying for the bleeding to stop, I held my breath.
When my blood pressure shot up at 15 weeks and they made me go back on bed rest for a week, I prayed that the numbers would come down. I stared at the ceiling and cried. And I held my breath.
At 18 weeks, I had an ultrasound and the blond woman smiled as the cold jelly spread across my growing belly. "It's a boy!" she said. I'll never forget the look on my husband's face. Our celebration was short lived, when the doctor came in and said "He has 4 cysts on his brain." I held my breath.
Time passed. I enjoyed being up and moving as my blood pressure was normal again and the bleeding had slowed, though not stopped. I prayed those cysts would just disappear. At 23 weeks, I got very upset over something that happened at church. I witnessed a woman become very angry at my husband. I stood in the next room sobbing as she spent twenty minutes screaming at him, telling him how to be a preacher, like God had given her the guide book. And then, when my belly tightened in that first contraction, I held my breath.
When the second contraction came, and then a third, and then a fourth, I knew something was wrong. They came and went, sometimes lasting for a few seconds, other times lasting much longer. I brushed it off as braxton hicks until the next night. I was watching Ally slide on the church playground. The setting sun made her blond hair almost glow around her tiny shoulders. And then the pain came and I sucked in sharply, trying to mask my fear with a smile. But I held my breath as we called the doctor.
Lying in the hospital bed, with monitors hooked to my belly, I tried to be calm. They could barely find a heartbeat and keep it on the monitor because he was still so tiny. They gave me one medication, then another, and another, until the contractions slowed down. Bed rest became all I knew. My husband became both mom and dad to our toddler daughter. My job, he told me, was to simply be an incubator and keep his son inside for a little while longer. So I laid in the bed, reading my Bible, crocheting for hours, and I held my breath.
Twenty-eight weeks was a celebration! We were past the viability markers and our son was still safe in my belly, which was only contracting sporadically. But two days later, another visit to the hospital left us emotionally drained again. More contractions, more medications, this time steroid shots for his tiny lungs. I listened to the whooshing sound of his heart on the monitors, day and night. It was a lullaby that brought me comfort as I begged God to let him stay inside another hour, another day. And as I waited, I held my breath.
Home again, still on bed rest, the 30 week mark came and went. A few days later, I woke up on top of wet sheets. I could barely see through the tears. My water had broken. The big puddle on the bed was proof. Sheets went into the washing machine and we headed to the hospital again. The nurse was grumpy. She wasn't in the mood to deal with patients that night. Looking back, I should have asked for someone different, but I was too scared to fight. She used a swab and it turned bright blue, giving proof that my water had indeed broken or at least leaked. "That can't be right" said the irritable nurse. She took a cloth and wiped me down, wiping away every trace of the amniotic fluid. Then quickly she brushed my skin with another swab, this time watching in delight as it didn't change. "There. I told you things were fine," she said smugly. They sent me home, despite my tears. I knew something was wrong, but they wouldn't listen. They gave me a sleeping pill and made me go home to bed. During the car ride home, the pill took effect and colors swirled together as sleep took over my worried mind. But I still held my breath.
Over the next two weeks, I had repeated ultrasounds as I felt my waters continue to leak. Each time, they measured the amniotic fluid. The numbers got lower, lower, and lower. My baby boy stopped growing and the ultrasound technician said "Intrauterine growth restriction" was the diagnosis. My doctor was out of town. The doctor on call was in no mood to deliver a baby. She tried to brush me off as I wept over my concerns. The ultrasound tech whispered words to my husband that I will never forget. "If that was my baby, I would refuse to go home. Your baby is in a lot of danger. You need to insist that they do something." I held my breath. Looking back, I couldn't have exhaled even if I wanted to.
So we camped out in the doctor's office, talking to anyone who would listen. We finally sat in front of an angry doctor. She accused us of being selfish. She told me that I was wrong. She said I would regret my decision and that she would not accept liability. I was unwavering. I knew in my heart my baby was going to die if we didn't do something. He barely moved within me as I said through tears, "Induce me today. I'm not negotiating with you anymore." She read me statistics about prematurity. And I recited my own research about stillbirths. She gave me statistical reasons why my baby should be fine if we waited another week. I gave her 10 minutes to have me admitted to the hospital. I was on the verge of calling an attorney. I held my breath.
When we got to the hospital, monitors revealed what I knew to be true. My baby was struggling. Already in labor when we arrived, they didn't need to do much to "induce" anything. I was shaking, scared, and angry at the careless doctor. My baby boy's heart rate would dive lower with each contraction. They moved me from side to side, tried internal monitors, and finally broke my water to speed things up. Very little water trickled out. They were wrong. My waters had been leaking for weeks. As the doctor wouldn't make eye contact with me in that moment, I knew that she knew. And my baby's heart rate dipped again. And I held my breath.
The pain came fast and hard. The tried an epidural, but it didn't take effect until too late to matter. I pushed. I prayed. I pushed. I prayed. I pushed again and they said "He's here." He cried a little, once they unwrapped the cord from his neck. It was around his little throat three times. The nurse's eyes were wide. The doctor was somber. I held my breath.
They let me kiss him before they whisked him to the NICU. "He's fine" is all anyone would tell me. Josh had seen him struggling to breathe in the NICU and then they made him leave. His eyes were wide and his color pale. I knew it was bad. Was it all my fault? Did I hurt my baby by asking for him to be delivered? Should I have asked for meds to stop the labor again? Had I made a horrible mistake? "God, please spare my son!" I begged. And I held my breath.
The doctor hugged me before she left for the night. "I'm sorry" she whispered in my ear. Her eyes said it all. The doctors at my practice had made a grave mistake when they didn't deliver my son weeks earlier, when I first woke up with the puddle in my bed. He wouldn't have made it another day in my exposed, infected womb. She knew it. I knew it. I held my breath.
Five hours later, they wheeled me to the NICU to see him. With a ventilator breathing for him and tubes covering his tiny little body, I could barely see him through the tears that blurred my eyes. "Dear God, be near." I held my breath.
Two weeks later, miracle and miracle had been given to my little family. He was breathing, eating, sleeping without apnea, and finally allowed to come home. The reason for his horrible start in this world? Sepsis. Infection. Because sometimes doctors should listen to their patients. Because sometimes a mother's instinct is right. But I thought of all the medications he had in the NICU. I watched as he struggled to gain weight and catch up with other babies his age. And I held my breath.
Seven months later, RSV tried to choke the life out of my little miracle boy. In the hospital again, I had to hold him down for x-rays. He cried. I cried. Breathing treatment after breathing treatment passed the time. Asthma was diagnosed. His NICU records were revisited by respiratory therapists and pediatricians. More antibiotics were given for a bacterial infection still lingering in his little lungs. I held my breath.
As his first birthday came and went, we celebrated our miracle. I was so thankful, so blessed to have my sweet boy. But he was delayed. Sitting late. Crawling late. Six months later, when he finally took a step at 18 months old, I held my breath.
His second birthday came and went this past spring. He knew a few words, but had a hard time saying them. My little boy was full of energy, but sometimes quiet and antisocial around strangers. His developmental delays concerned me. A family doctor asked lots of questions, did a big exam, and mention a word that nearly shattered me: autism. I held my breath.
We had to wait six months for a follow up appointment before we would know any more. Family members said things like "Is he not talking yet?" or "Do you think something's wrong?". They were only concerned but with each question, I felt like my world was shattering. Was it my fault? Had I failed my baby boy? Would he be sentenced to a life of special needs because I wasn't able to carry him to term? I held my breath.
A month ago, we saw a new pediatrician. He did another evaluation in the office. He had seen "autism" mentioned as a possibility in my little boy's records. He studied him. He asked him questions. He asked him to draw pictures and repeat words. Walker gave him a crooked smile and ignored him. The doctor wrote a referral for a developmental specialist so we could get a diagnosis. I held my breath.
This morning, as I drove Walker to his appointment with the specialist, I thought about all the things we have been through. Fertility treatments, bleeding, preterm labor, growth restrictions, cysts on his brain, respiratory failure, feeding tubes, RSV. It's overwhelming if I put the last two and a half years into an orderly little sequence of events. As I sat in the waiting room, watching Walker play with puzzles, I considered the past 30 months. I have not really let out my breath in that entire time. I've spent every single moment of my son's life waiting on the next bomb, hoping I'd survive the next round of devastation. Just begging God that we'd get through it all in one piece. I considered it all as Walker was tested. They asked him questions. They watched him play with blocks. They asked him about colors and shapes. They wanted him to count and name animals. They watched him draw and run and jump and climb stairs. Through it all, I held my breath.
Two hours later, they called me into a little room. Two specialists, a pediatrician and a speech therapist, sat with me at a little table. I tried to smile and turn off my anxiety. "So?" I asked.
They started going over papers and numbers and figures and developmental milestones. I tried to listen but I was waiting on one thing. I needed to know for sure. Was he okay? Did my son have autism? Had the other two doctors been right? What was life going to be like for my precious little boy? I held my breath.
The woman in charge of our meeting must have sensed what was happening in my mind. She stopped and smiled at me gently. Quietly, she said, "Mrs. Benge, he's fine."
No autism.
No learning disabilities.
No hearing loss.
No vision problems.
Where doctors once pronounced curses, God used this woman to pronounce blessings. She started talking again and I tried not to cry. I held my breath.
He is smart.
His attention span is great.
He is intelligent.
He can count. He knows colors.
He is speaking well.
His speech delays are only a problem with his mouth and a pesky little overbite. It will all correct itself in the next few months as he grows more.
He needs no therapy.
There will be no more follow up.
No autism.
No learning disabilities.
No long term consequences for his difficult start in life.
I carried my little boy out to the car and buckled him safely in his car seat. I started driving home as he sang to himself in the back seat. I was about half way home when it happened.
For the first time in over three years, I finally exhaled.
Praise God!
9 comments:
Praise God, indeed!!! I rejoice with you at your HEALTHY little miracle boy!
Praise the Lord! He is good!
Praise God!!! So happy you could exhale finally. Awesome!!
PRAISE HIM!!!!!!!!
I'm exhaling with you! I imagine this has been a stressful day! Thank God all is well!
Oh Amber that's beautiful! Brought tears to my eyes. Praise God for good reports!
What a story (and testimony) you shared. I was in tears reading this, I could not imagine having to endure so much. I am so happy to hear of your happy ending. Thank you so much for sharing and Praise God!
What a testimony! He really is a miracle.
i'm crying. thank you for this. i really, really love you.
thank you for placing a stone with me. because then i remember how faithful He is.
today. right now. i am exhaling.
thank you for this sister, Jesus.
love,
ebbie-
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