It had been a rough last week of pregnancy.

I experience prodromal labor for days before active labor begins and let me just tell you, there is nothing more frustrating in the last few days of pregnancy than thinking it’s finally time because you’ve been breathing through some pretty intense contractions for hours only to have them completely stop and leave you pregnant for another who-knows-how-long. And then it happens again the next day and for hours you wonder if this is it and then it isn’t. It’s like a psychotic, water torture-esque cycle of madness that makes you feel like an actual crazy person. No wonder so many women check into hospitals too early. Pro-tip: when people tell you “you’ll just know when you’re in labor, trust me” …don’t trust them.

I’d been trying to convince myself that these early stages of labor were a good sign! That they must be moving things along and pushing me close to getting that baby boy here, but I was starting to panic a little. My mom only had so much time to spend in town with us, and I wasn’t a good candidate for going too far past my due date since this birth was going to be my second VBAC. My doctor was a little gun-shy and had already hinted that we might need to do a C-section if we went much longer without going into labor. I was adamantly against that plan given the traumatic circumstances surrounding my first C-section. A repeat cesarean was my nightmare.  Or so I thought.

I woke up early the morning of the 16th. It was my mom’s birthday and I

Here you will see me looking swole

decided to take her to breakfast to celebrate. The contractions of the days before had completely dissipated and I wasn’t even feeling a twinge. Disappointing. That day, a new first presidency (church leadership) was being called after our last prophet, Thomas S. Monson, had passed away a few days prior. I remember what a special experience it was to listen to the press release with my mom as the new first presidency made their statements and bore their testimonies. “What a wonderful day it would be for a birthday,” I thought kind of aggressively at my uterus.

Turned out, my uterus finally listened! A handful of hours later, contractions began in earnest. I wasn’t convinced; however. These contractions felt just like the ones had the day before and the day before that and the day before that. I never rush to the hospital. First of all, I’m looking for some solid proof it’s the real thing before I go in because I refuse to be sent home without a baby (consider that statement to be ominous foreshadowing), and second of all, I prefer laboring at home for as long as I can before entering into the more restricted world of the hospital (no hate, hospitals, I heart your drugs). So I waited. And labored. And sent texts to the hubby to keep him posted. Finally, I sent him THE text. “Come home. This is real!”

My nieces had graciously offered to come and help my mom with the boys while Shem and I went to the hospital and my nephew had graciously offered to drive them down. While we waited for them to arrive, I went to take a bath. Laboring in a tub is just the best and I like to be clean going into the hospital because trust. that’s the last moment you’ll get to feel super clean for a long while to come. That was the first moment I noticed something odd. Not realizing what it might indicate, I just took a mental note and thought “that’s more blood than I normally see at this stage,”. In retrospect, of course, I know it’s because things were falling apart inside of me, but at the time I felt excited to know that things were real!

I got out of the bath, got ready to go, grabbed the hospital bags, and after Shem gave me a blessing of comfort and strength, we were off! Once we got to the hospital, things started moving really quickly. I was checked and admitted and simultaneously, my labor started to get really hard. I told the nurse that I thought my water might have broken because I’d been having some really odd bleeding. She told me to buckle up. Laboring without your waters in tact tends to be a lot more intense. And boy howdy, was this some intense labor. Suddenly, contractions were fast and furious and one right on top of the other. I was hooked up to monitors and the nurse was pretty impressed with the rigorous and frequent contractions, remarking that I wasn’t even getting a break in between. I told her I was worried I was hitting transition and needed my epidural. I was terrified that I was about to miss the window for an epidural and was on my way to experiencing a natural birth. Which. Has never been on my mommy bucket-list, let me just tell you.

The nurse hurried as quickly as she could to get the anesthesiologist to the hospital and into my room to administer the epidural. Her hustle is one of the most loving gestures I can remember experiencing in. my. life. Because I was dying. This was the hardest labor I’d ever known and never had I yearned for a humongous needle to be inserted into my spinal chord more than I did in that moment. While we were waiting for the epidural, a change of shift took place and my compassionate first nurse introduced me to her equally loving replacement and debriefed her on my situation, “she thinks her water broke and she’s laboring really hard. The epidural is on it’s way and she is ready for it,”

I told the new nurse (buckle up, ya’ll birth ain’t pretty) that I felt like I was gushing fluid and was experiencing a lot of pressure. At this point, I was feeling a sense of dread. I thought for sure I had miraculously progressed so much as a result of my insane labor that I was ready to push…sans epidural. Panic. The nurse checked me. Turns out, what I thought was gushing fluid actually turned out to be blood. This, understandably, worried the nurse. She hooked baby boy up to an internal fetal monitor. She called my doctor and mentioned off-hand to a physician who was in the room at the time that because she’d just transferred in from the NICU, she tended to see red lights and danger everywhere. But she thought it might just be paranoia.

At last, my favorite person in the hospital (sorry, Shem, but for the moment you were bested) arrived with a cart full of magical stuff to make me temporarily numb from the waist down and I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty positive I heard actual singing angels as that expert rolled his cart into my room. My sister-in-law who is a labor and delivery nurse by trade, arrived at some point during all of this action and Shem debriefed her.

And then, it was all a blur. The fetal monitor was picking up distress. Baby’s heart rate had slowed dramatically. As the epidural kicked in, the room filled with people (never a great sign during labor) and they tried turning me onto my side and gave me oxygen. The doctor checked me and confirmed; there was too much blood; baby was in distress. They called the surgeon. As the surgeon explained what was happening, I began to cry and told him that I’d had a C-section once before and it had been a traumatic experience. He was so kind and careful as he reassured me that I would be in good hands. He glanced at the monitors, “But I think we need to get this baby out. Now,”  I knew he was right, “Me too,”

A sense of urgency filled me. Everyone sprang into action and we moved so quickly, I barely had time to think about what was happening. They transferred me into a surgical bed and ran me down the hallway. I would find out later that only 7 minutes transpired between the moment they called for the C-Section and the moment he was out. Those seven minutes felt like eternity for me. No one explicitly told me that the baby was in trouble; no one wanted to burden me with the knowledge that they were all concerned, but I could feel it. They knew something had gone wrong.

Someone stayed with Shem to help him get scrubbed in as quickly as possible in the hopes that he would be there in time for the birth. I think he made it just after Thomas was officially born. And then there was silence. That silence that all new parents fear; that moment when baby is out, but there isn’t a cry. The silence that is also filled with noise and rushing and people communicating with each other; counting; giving direction; using words and language that the layman doesn’t understand.

I hadn’t seen him yet. When they pulled him out, they told me, “it’s a little boy!” and immediately handed him over to the specialists waiting to save his life. I still didn’t understand; didn’t realize the severity of the situation. But I knew it wasn’t good.

“If you decide to have another one, it’ll have to be a scheduled cesarean,” the surgeon mentioned.

I strained to hear my baby, “We’re not having anymore. You might as well tie me up while you’re in there,”

“Well. You can decide that later,”

In retrospect, a wonderful policy, dear hospital, because I’d be devastated if that option had been taken from me during that moment of panic.

Shem was standing by my head, smoothing my hair and telling me what a wonderful job I’d done while we both waited for those cries, but only heard the sounds of the nurses counting repeatedly to five. The surgeons were explaining to him what had happened, “The placenta is completely detached from the wall of her uterus. The connection is gone. We have no way of knowing how long he’d been in there without it,”

I kept asking Shem if the baby was okay and my poor, sweet husband who was undoubtedly feeling enormous pressure to be my source of strength while simultaneously feeling devastated and confused and facing great unknowns himself, had the presence of mind to keep repeating, “they’re taking really good care of him, love. Everyone has a job to do and they’re all working together beautifully,” despite the fact that he, unlike me, had seen our baby’s purple, lifeless body and knew how bad it looked.

I stared at the ceiling, frustrated that I didn’t know more; frustrated that I couldn’t see more; frustrated that I couldn’t do more. I was stuck in every capacity. There was nothing I could do for my precious boy and so I turned to the One who could. “Father, please don’t take my baby. Please, please let him stay here with me,” the florescent lights were dim and made the room feel sterile. I stared into the light, “Please, Father, let him stay here,” and then, in a moment of silence and counting and hushed voices I heard, “It will all be okay,” I knew that didn’t mean my baby would stay. But peace washed over me and my entire body relaxed. My prayer changed, “Father, if you need to take this boy, it will be okay. I know that you will make it okay. I will let go of him if that is what you ask of me. He isn’t mine, but yours. Please, give me peace in your will,”

I cried and I let go and peace came. A few moments passed and then the nurse said, “we got him” and finally, finally they brought him over to show me. He was blue and limp and intubated and for the first time the full weight of it all hit me. He was beautiful and I loved him. My need for him grew and the peace I’d felt left and all I wanted was for him to live. I cried and stroked his arm and told him how much I loved him and that it would all be okay. “They’re going to take good care of you, baby. Mama loves you. I love you so much, little boy,” and I hoped he was hearing me and would somehow remember my voice if, God willing, he was able to hear it again soon. He’d never been away from my voice. In all of his existence, my voice had always been near and now it wouldn’t be. How would he feel safe with nothing familiar nearby to comfort him? All I had to give him was that voice; that comfort, but at the moment, I couldn’t even give him that. I was helpless.

They took him to the NICU and me to recovery. I was in shock and needed warm blankets as I shivered violently. The next few hours passed in an exhausted blur as we filled family in on the eventful birth. Nurses and doctors came in to explain in more detail what had happened. My mom showed up at the hospital. We waited. I began to take the steps necessary to recover. I was informed that it was a miracle that I hadn’t needed a blood transfusion; in fact, my blood platelets looked exceptionally good for after any birth, let alone one with complications. A prayer for my boy was streaming through my mind constantly during those hours until at last, NICU personnel streamed in to update me on Thomas’ condition and let me know when I could come and see him.

“He is stable for now. He experienced prolonged blood and oxygen deprivation and so is going to need to be treated on a cooling table in order to mitigate any brain damage he may have sustained,” They explained the procedure which would put my boy into a state of medically-induced hypothermia and told me it was already underway, “Because our NICU staff is fully trained in this relatively new procedure, the nurses tending to baby already knew he’d need the treatment as soon as possible and started preparing it for him even as we were resuscitating him. We see great success rates with this treatment when it’s administered within an hour of birth,”

I was so grateful we’d given birth at a hospital equipped with this state-of-the art NICU and was already feeling overwhelmed with the miracles we’d seen. But for now, I was just excited that I’d get to go and see my boy. It was late. And I’d been up since 6 that morning. I was exhausted and had just undergone major surgery, but my every, single cell needed to get to that baby. And I am so grateful we were able to. When they wheeled me into his room, his little body was covered in wires and tubes and he was fast asleep (lots of good drugs in his system to keep him under) but because of the two and a half blood transfusions they’d given him, he was pink! Beautifully, wonderfully pink. The only piece of him that didn’t have color yet were his tiny toes. I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t felt since the birth. And now, I was finally certain he would live.

There were still so many unanswered questions and so much to think about, but for now, I stared down and this boy I didn’t know yet and loved fiercely and thanked my Father in Heaven for his life over and over and over while I held his swollen but tiny hand. I stayed for as long as I could, but eventually the pain of my incisions couldn’t wait anymore and I needed to sleep.

The following days and weeks would prove to be some of the most mentally and physically demanding days of my life. The driving home from the hospital with an empty car seat, the NICU visits, the pumping around the clock, the dividing myself into enough pieces to keep my family going, the loving a baby so far away, the pain of recovery. The list was extensive and exhausting. But the miracles we saw during those weeks of his recovery were absolutely some of the most profound experiences of my life. I think of a quote that I love by a Mormon pioneer named Francis Webster who said of his company’s harrowing experience crossing the plains, “…every one of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives for we became acquainted with him in our extremities.”

These were my extremities. And I became acquainted with God to a jaw-dropping degree because of them.

It’s now a year later and that little boy has grown into a chubby, smiley, joy-filled one-year-old; toddling through the house in search of the next great adventure (aka: thing to destroy). Not a day has gone by during this year when I don’t thank my Father for the blessing of Thomas’ life or for the miracles we saw while he recovered. He is meeting all of his milestones. His MRI came back clear; no discernible brain damage. He started walking at 10 months. He babbles and smiles and cuddles and dances. He fills my heart with absolute joy and gratitude. He is my daily reminder of God’s love and grace and goodness.

If it had gone badly; if we had left that hospital without our baby and the knowledge that it was permanent; if I had taken my broken body home and continued a life-long longing for that boy, never to have that need filled, I know that it all would have been okay. I know that we would have come to know God in those extremities as well. I know that our faith in His grace and goodness and love would have grown. I was reassured of that during my pleadings in the hospital. “It’ll be okay,” and it would have. And it is. And it will be. Hurting; grieving; losing; suffering, it can all be made okay through Christ.

“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”

Happy birthday, precious boy.
And thank you, God, for his life.