From Tattoo to NICU: Trusting a Good God Through A Hard Pregnancy

“From the false security that I have what it takes, Deliver me, Jesus” (Litany of Trust)

The day of my tattoo appointment was the day I also found out I was pregnant. What tattoo? “fiat”.

For many years now, I have wrestled with the word, relied on the word, hated the word, and embraced the word. Yes. Your will be done. Fiat. I wanted the permanent reminder that in all things, I must choose His will over mine. Because otherwise I may “forget”…or choose to forget…to make that choice.

And so, discovering we were expecting our fifth child in seven years on the same day I was going to get inked, I felt, was a little wink from God to actually go through with it. The “yes” to Him in all things…not necessarily the tattooing.

With the reminder firmly etched in place, God was ready to show me what it looked like to live out that word.

High Risk Pregnancy

BOOM! Right at 6 weeks, extreme nausea arrived and stayed put for 7 more weeks. Heartburn, a symptom I’d experienced before, hit an all time fire and lasted through the entire 40 weeks. Tums were my BFF. (And yes, the old wives tale is true…our babies come out hairy).

And so came my first “fiat”.

The morning sickness was nothing in comparison to the rollercoaster that began at 30 weeks. First, fatigue, like I’d never experienced in my life, left me horizontal for hours during the day and asleep for the night by 8PM. Next came the gradually increasing heart rate that sent me to the ER just before 31 weeks…I’m talking a resting heart rate of over 120 and spurts of 170 when simply unloading the dishwasher or taking a shower. My body was constantly in “exercise mode”. It took silence and deep breathing to lower.

Mid-32 weeks, because of our persistence, insistence, and slowly rising blood pressure readings, the OB office finally sent me to Labor and Delivery for what turned out to be a double overnight stay in the hospital. I was met with a few well-meaning doctors who dismissed my concerns. They took my concerns seriously, but after all the scans and tests they could think of came back clean. They all took a look at my belly and said some version of “being pregnant is hard” and “just take it easy”.

After ruling out the major scary stuff (like pulmonary edema), it was determined that I was in no immediate risk, but there was no actual explanation for most of my complaints. The prescription was bedrest; the goal was to make it to 37 weeks and then induce. That meant OB appointments twice a week (which included bloodwork, ultrasound, and NST). The OB’s concern was preeclampsia, but preeclampsia didn’t explain why I kept getting worse. I couldn’t stand for more than a few minutes before becoming exhausted, having body aches, and losing my breath. I tried going to Mass with Renzo and I couldn’t make it past the opening prayer before having to sit for the remainder of the celebration.

And so, I surrendered to bedrest and relying on others to do pretty much everything for my family and for me. Fiat.

Thankfully, a thorough PCP ordered extra panels of bloodwork and found a Lyme Disease flare up to be the culprit a few weeks later. At just after 36 weeks (after losing partial vision in my left eye!) I began antibiotics. Just in time to offer some relief before labor!

The 37 week goal arrived and we breathed a huge sigh of relief. We made it! In our minds, today was going to be the day we’d get to meet the little man we’d been anxiously waiting for. We couldn’t wait to hold him, but our rollercoaster was starting another climb.

Welcome Baby B

Foolishly, I felt overconfident. I figured, since I had made it this far, labor would be similar to the last 4: quick and easy (as quick and easy as labor could be). And since I’d cooked our boy “long enough”, he’d be born healthy, strong, and a nice shade of brown.

15 hours of labor later (nearly double my longest labor), Baby B arrived minutes after midnight. He was quiet. And as I held him on my chest, everyone in the room could tell he was struggling to breathe. Quickly, they took him from my arms and hooked him up to a couple of machines to test the level of oxygen levels. A healthy baby can usually maintain 94-100%, Baby B was struggling to maintain 80%.

We were reassured by the PA and nurse that this happened sometimes, and that he just needed to work out some fluid in his lungs. But even with short bursts of 93-95% I knew in my “mom gut” that something was not right.

Still I tried….Fiat.

After 2 hours of nurses and doctors trying to help him in the delivery room, I gathered the courage after fighting back the desire to keep him with us; I advocated that they take him to the NICU to make sure he’d be ok.

….Fiat.

Time in the NICU

He was whisked off to the NICU for more intensive care. And I was sent to my recovery room alone. Mothering a newborn in the NICU, while recovering from birth myself, particularly with the current social distancing protocols in place…was quite a different experience.

Pumping every 2 hours through the night without the benefit of baby snuggles was, frankly, unmotivating and depressing. Sitting in a hospital bed receiving congratulatory texts without being able to send sweet swaddled pictures is heartbreaking. And sorely slowly waddling to another wing of the hospital to visit your son while he lays in a box with only the option to put a hand on his belly while he was hooked up to machines and tubes made me weep. Alone. And masked. (Because regulations didn’t allow both parents to visit their sick newborn simultaneously at that time…tell me how that makes sense?!)

That what what I could do for him…Fiat.

I was concerned, but not worried, when I was unwell. I felt that I could control things by following doctors’ orders. But God wanted me to let go and surrender everything to Him. When the realization hit that my newborn baby was unwell, and there was not a single thing I could do about it, I was wrecked. The only thing left was to let go:

Let go of the unmet expectations of what pregnancy should have been.

Let go of the unmet expectations of what delivery should have been.

Let go of the unmet expectations of what B’s first days should have been.

Let go of the outcome of this entire mess. And just….Fiat.

Then prayer began to carry me. In these moment of surrender, grace is palpable. I could actually feel friends and family interceding for us. I accepted that I had zero ability to handle this on my own. None. I needed something, some One, outside of me to carry me through. In my need, Jesus met me and gave Himself as my strength. The prayers of those who love my family sustained us. I wish I could put into words how their prayers had miraculous effect.

Moving In and Moving Out

Once I was discharged from maternity care, I “moved in” to B’s NICU room. Here, I observed first hand how the nurses and doctors with hearts of gold cared for my boy while I was still unable to. They spoke to him, they caressed him, and they used their wisdom and experience to strengthen him while ruling out any other possible emergent needs.

By now I accepted I had no control over what came next…..Fiat.

After a few days, we were home. Our brief few days in the NICU certainly gave us a wake up call to the families that spend weeks and months caring for a sick or underdeveloped newborn baby. While our stay was short, it was filled with mixed news and various possible prognoses. We were supported by the prayers of our loved ones. We’ve added families in the NICU to our intentions after that experience.

Now, our big kids are thrilled to have another sibling. They dote on him and look out for him all day long.

There have been a few peculiar behaviors to adjust from after spending nearly a week without mom and dad and worrying about their brother’s health. But, I take that as affirmation that we’re better when we’re all together as a family.

Takeaways

I am a firm believer in that all suffering can be redeemed by how we handle it and what we learn from it.

When we say “fiat”, it means that we welcome His grace to move our life. In doing so, we will still face life’s struggles, but with the help of His blessings. These blessings can take many shapes and forms. For us, in this time of trial, His blessing was our community that shared God’s love for us.

I have never relied more heavily on the charity of others than I have these last few months. I used to pride myself on my self-sufficiency and independence. Until I was no longer able to care for myself or my family on my own. Our community loved on us, encouraged us, prayed for us, and cared for us. Despite virus restrictions, our people were creative. Food was sent, the house was cleaned, and activities for the kids were gifted.

Also, I learned that my husband is a real life superhero. He somehow managed to tenderly care for me, pick up so very much of my slack, give the kids positive attention, and not freak out (even though, I know, he was terrified inside). He was a sturdy rock. My children and I got to witness humble greatness. And it’s a treasure.

Through all this, my fiat has grown and stretched.

My fiat now is stronger as I’m able to relinquish my desire to control things from all sides. I choose to trust in Jesus and His goodness more than my own abilities. I trust in my family and my friends because they are genuinely wonderful humans and exemplify how they rely on grace to be the source of their strength. I will pay it forward in the future. And I will actually pray when I say I will.

I will continue to say “fiat” to the will of God. Because, man. He is so so Good.

Fiat-Monica