I can't do it anymore. 

I just can't not say something. Not say anything. 

Take it or leave it...here it is. 

Lately we have all seen the news about New York declaring their "victory for women's' rights"... making it legal to terminate a pregnancy up until the child is actually born.

They have declared that the 40 week old "fetus" is not actually a human life. It has been declared that those babies are not a human soul, and that there is no worth in those lives although they have been moving, kicking, thinking, growing, and living. 

I tend to stay quiet when politics are concerned. I despise major conflict. Honestly, I feel It is not my place to convince or coerce someone/anyone into any type of belief regarding politics, and that is not what I am trying to do.  I have friends and people around me who are from many different backgrounds and many different paths in their lives... and I respect each of you, and I am glad that you have had a chance in your life to form an opinion. You deserve that.  I have met people from all over the world through my story with my pregnancy, birth,and burial of my precious son. If you know me at all, you know (although I may never speak of my political views) you know my feelings and beliefs about this situation.

But let me just say right now.. If I lose "friends" over my belief about this, then that's fine. If this post steps on your toes or offends you, please know that I love you anyway, no matter what you have gone through in your rough journey .. But at least you got the chance to live your life. You have the chance, the opportunity to form an opinion on this subject matter. As you should be free to do. 

This decision by the state of New York is ground breaking. It is not only a ground breaking decision, but it is an earth shattering, heart breaking, gut wrenching decision that involves sweet, precious babies as well as "adults."

This hits me in 2 completely different ways. Somehow I have been on each end of this life altering decision. 

Before I was born my birth mother was just a few days late to the office to have an abortion. She was young. She was scared. It wasn't her choice to be there. She did her best to protect me.  She hid her pregnancy and covered me up and protected me as long as she could; kept me a secret so that no one could end my life.  She chose to give me the chance at life by placing me for adoption.

I spoke with my birth mother several times about this very topic, about this very same idea, although neither of us had any clue that this would ever be an actual REAL thing people actually do, killing their babies.


I know.  I hear you. 
What? I talked to my birth mother? I know who she is? Yes, y'all. Yes.  (I can hear the questions screaming towards the  computer/phone screen now... ) And yes, we found one another, spoke with one another, wrote letters, and talked on the phone. We never met in person, but we knew the intimate details one another's lives.   We bonded over a few years, and before her young life ended, I got to hear her explain to me what she went through... Her intense, desperate hold on me as I grew inside her stomach. 

I was not planned.  I was not created in an atmosphere of love, a place from a man and a woman's desire to raise a child in this world.

When my birth mother was 15 she experienced something that I hope and wish others will never have to go through.  When I was inside her belly she saw sonograms, pictures, and videos of me. She told me about seeing me, naming me, dreaming of my future, picturing me as an adult trying to make the world a better place.  Why did she do that? Because I was a life growing inside her.  I was a human being being formed by the grace of God inside of her pregnant belly.

She imagined how beautiful my life could be if she gave me to people who were desperately trying to love and raise a child. She told me about the options she faced... Giving me  chance at life and giving me away, I literally can not imagine how incredibly strong a girl must be to literally hand her child off to strangers to let them raise it.  I probably couldn't do it.  But she was strong.  She, somehow, was selfless.  She gave me that chance.  She gave me the chance.

Fast forward to 2015 and I'm now a mother with a choice.  I'm pregnant with my first child and I am told that because he has a birth defect, I can "terminate my pregnancy " because it was detected so early. .

I had the choice right then and there, along with my phenomenal husband, to terminate a life. That was not our decision to make. There was no question that we were going to give our child a chance at life. 

As you know by now, we experienced over a year of a very high risk pregnancy, early labor, months on bed rest, multiple stays in the hospital, an early delivery, NICU, bringing our son home, then dealing with his passing, funeral, burial, and the devastatingly terrible days, months, years, to follow. 

Bear with me y'all, I'm getting to it. 

Many of y'all have not dealt with child bearing, life threatening pregnancies, NICU, abnormalities, and so on... and God bless you.  May you never have to.  

But I've been there.  My imperfect son was born months earlier than he was supposed to. We went through the weeks and months of heart break and devastation of his imperfections in NICU. We sat with him for hours each day, willing him and praying to the Lord that he would grow big and strong enough for him to not only come home, but for him, frankly,  to make it. 

My son grew in my stomach for almost 9 months. I gave birth to him. I held him. I saw every part of him.  That precious baby was grown in my stomach by not my strength, but His. He had 10 fingers, 10 toes, a nose just like his momma's, and hair just like his daddy's. He had dirty diapers, he needed baths.  He longed to hear mommy and daddy's voices, and cuddled close to both of us. He developed that desire and need for closeness long before he came into this word, and it grew deeper each day.  He knew both of our voices clearly when we were around.  He literally clung to our clothes as we held him. He held on to us with a fierce passion. 

Even being born way before he was "full term," baby Ben was a human.  He was functioning.  He was intellectual, he was present, he was responsive. He was a functioning human. 

He. Was. A. Human.

Knowing what we knew about his imperfections, there was no shadow of a doubt that we would give him a chance at life.  We gave him everything we could, and I'd do it all over again.

To those of you who decide that life is not important...

If you think you are in the position to negate that young life.. I dare you to live a day in the life of my husband and myself.  I dare you to go through watching your child, with your surgeon and special care team doctors declare TOD (time of death), although I performed  CPR and did every life saving move I possibly could on my frail son,  (**I have never uttered those letters because they make me physically sick ..)  I dare you to hold that baby in your arms as they convince you to put a heat pack around your child so you don't feel the chill of death.. and then say that child was not a human... I dare you to challenge me on that.  Because I have freaking experienced it. I know what it feels like. And it is awful. 

Ladies, girls, who are not ready to parent, but find themselves in the predicament of choosing to give life or end it, I know that you have come up with so many reasons to end it and walk away.  You were raped, you don't have enough money to raise a child, you accidentally got knocked up, you weren't planning for it. There are so many reasons you can come up with to kill your child inside your body.  Yes, I know there are over 400 thousand children in America waiting to be adopted.. But there are twice that many adults who are desperate to adopt or foster those babies. Give those children a freaking chance.

There are those of us who want those children, those babies, and are willing to do whatever it takes to give them a chance at life. I just can't understand how women march and "fight" for rights as women, yet take the right of life away from future women. You are literally a walking contradiction. So many women are crying every day, every night, because they are unable to bring a beautiful soul into the world. Spending thousands of dollars each year to just attempt to bring a gorgeous soul into this world.  Yet some of you are tossing that away.  If you met some of us, heard our stories, listened to women and men who have tried for years and years to  bring a child into this world... there is just no legitimate reason that you'd readily choose to kill your child.

Add 1 more kid to those 400 thousand children in America needing to be adopted.  Add 1 more beautiful soul, because frankly, it is ridiculous that you have the opportunity to decide whether you choose life or you choose death for an innocent child.  They deserve to be heard.  They deserve a voice.  

Thousands, millions, tons, of people go through their life every day desperately desiring to bring life into this world.  There are many reasons some can't do just that.  Yet we are ready and willing to take your child into our homes and love them with the love of the Lord.  We crave that opportunity.  Why throw that away?

I'm sure giving your child up for adoption, giving it away to strangers is hard.  But I'm telling you it has to be easier than experiencing their death.  I can't imagine how difficult it would be for me to hand my child that grew inside me for so many months to some strangers... but I guarantee you it is easier than putting that precious body in the ground.  It is easier than living with that pain every single day.

As New York lights up their sky scrapers in pink for a celebration of "women's rights," I pray that your soul would light up with love and you would choose to give that little life a chance to speak for its own. Those children, those humans can't speak for themselves, so let me be their voice.  They want, need, and desire to not only live their lives, but to be able to have  chance to speak for themselves.

Someone else's life should not be your decision to end.  Let them grow up to speak up.  That voice that people are using to speak, yell their beliefs on this very subject matter.. Let those little ones grow up to use their own.  But until then, I, along with many other women and men, will be their voice. 

Life is precious, beautiful, hard, and fragile.  Appreciate those days you are blessed with.  We all deserve the chance to live. 



Thanks for bearing with me through this post, it has been 2 years since I have written and it has been hard.  I pray that somehow these discombobulated stinging of words helps at least 1 person. 


choose joy,
allison

'Tis the Season to be Jolly?

It's winter! It's Christmas time! It's time to be excited, happy, jolly! Right?! We have our Christmas lists, our gifts for others wrapped tight for our family and friends. It's such a happy, beautiful season... But is it really that great for every woman?

No. It's hard. It causes anxiety. It hurts. It's painful.

I see you, sweet mom whose number one wish and prayer is to have a baby.
I see you, precious woman, who just like me, took that Christmas pregnancy test and it was negative. I see you, I've cried with you, I feel your devastating pain.
I hear you, sweet girl, when you realize you can't give that positive pregnancy test to your husband for the very best Christmas gift.

Sometimes our Christmas wishes don't come true.  Sometimes our prayers aren't answered right away. Sometimes what we pray for is answered in a completely different way than we want.

I'm going to be completely honest and straightforward with you... I hate Christmas. I hate the gatherings, the meals, the talks. It breaks my heart.  I hate it because my baby should be there.  We should be celebrating his first birthday. We should be cutting his first birthday cake. He should be grabbing his "smash cake" and putting it all over his face. He should be enjoying his first visit from Santa and receiving gifts from his grandparents and cousins.

As I decorated for Christmas this year I remembered the year before... My Mom and Dad were here. Mom helped me decorate and my Dad graciously went to CVS 3 times to get more lights and extension cords.

 I desperately wish that this year they could watch Baby Ben open Christmas gifts from them... but that's not the case. He's not here.

I can dwell on the sadness, the heartache, the sorrow, the fact that the pregnancy test, yet again, was negative. I can tell you a million reasons to be sad this season. I could write a freaking book of reasons to be depressed this season! But really... there are so many reasons to rejoice. Yes, Ben and I will be the only ones in my family without a child. Yes, it's hard to watch the other kids open their gifts. Yes, it breaks my heart that we don't have a blue cake at our Christmas dinner to celebrate. Yes, it hurts that I've tossed countless negative pregnancy tests into the trash cans in tears. Yes, I am dreading Christmas day because that's the day of my child's birth. Yes, I am broken. But God is bigger than this.

I'm terrified that Baby Ben was my one chance. I'm scared that we can't have another precious baby. I'm fearful that I had my one opportunity, but I have to believe.  The Christmas story is so powerful.
It's so amazing, it's so mighty!  Our God is strong.  He is so much more than me. I want what I want, but I have to trust that He is stronger than me. He's bigger than me. He's better than me. He is perfect.

Women out there who feel defeated, women who cry when you take that pregnancy test and it's not what you want; that woman who didn't get the adoption papers or foster papers, that woman  who feels empty... I feel you. I understand. I hurt with you... but please know that our God is bigger. He feels your pain.  He feels your emptiness.  He feels your ache.

He is so much more.  He was born to give us hope, to give us a purpose, and so much more.
Yes. I absolutely feel your pain.  Yes, I  know how bad it hurts.  I know how hard it is to tell your husband that yet again, this month I failed. I understand that the adoption papers didn't work out. But, moms, we have to believe.  I call you moms because you are moms. You may not have children yet, or you may not have as many children as you wanted yet.... Either way, our God is powerful.

This is the season to spread joy to one another.  Whether that be you giving your friend an extra gift, spending more money on your boss than you planned, spending more money on your students than you anticipated... It is so worth it.

Make the choice to choose joy.  Make the choice to be positive.   Make a choice to be happy.  Make the choice to make someone's life better.

Precious mom, sweet woman, believe that He hears you.  Its's not always the answer you want to hear.  It's probably the opposite of what you want to hear, but He knows better.

Take this journey with me.  Take this journey of trusting Him, above all.  It's hard, it's tough, but let's do it together... You can do it, precious woman.  Your time will come. I'm proud of you or being so strong. I know it's hard.  I know it's arduous.  I know it's difficult.  But you can do it.  You can make it through this Christmas season.  You can do this.  I believe in you.

Love Always,
Allison

a letter to our son

A letter to my son-

Ben, there are some things I want to say. 

First,I want you to know that I loved being your mommy. I loved every single second I spent with you in NICU, even when it shattered my heart. I cherished helping the nurses, and even teaching some of them, how to care for your omphalocele. I loved rocking you for hours. I even loved staring at your monitor and making sure all of your numbers were okay. I loved walking through the doors, checking in and practically running to your "crib." I loved learning to feed you there, I loved scooping you up and holding you for hours on end. I loved how the nurses loved you and thought (knew) you were so super adorable and such a good baby.

Even more,I loved every moment we had with you at home. God certainly blessed us by being able to be together in our home. I loved snuggling with you on the couch, I loved waking up to feed you, and I even loved your cry... It was so pitiful! I loved watching you on the monitor. I loved watching your daddy hold you and love on you, y'all were so much alike. I loved rocking you in your nursery and listening to your little snore (another way you and daddy are alike!)

You absolutely changed our lives(and many more). You taught me what selfless love really is. God used you in your short time to minister to me and help me. You taught me how to be a mommy. You taught me how to change stinky diapers without gagging :) You taught me to change my life to better your life. You taught me to rely on God more, you taught me more than I could ever even list. You were the absolute best son I could ever have asked for. 

I talk about you all the time. Your daddy and I talk about the precious times we spent together with you and I am now even able to talk to others about you without sobbing!

I miss seeing your daddy hold you. You were so incredibly tiny compared to him! It always made me giggle when I would do laundry and your clothes were so much tinier than his! I miss seeing your daddy bottle feed you and love on you. Although he had never even held a baby before, he was such a natural with you! I miss seeing you sleep, you literally slept exactly like your daddy. I miss seeing you hold on to his finger, you loved to hold on to his big finger so much! It melted my heart each time you reached for it. 

 I miss hearing your handsome daddy singing to you. He sang to you ALL the time. It was the only thing that made you stop crying! He is an amazing dad, as you know. 

Every now and then, I will catch your daddy signing your dirty diaper/omphalocele chaging song:

                "Close your eyes and I'll kiss you

Tomorrow I'll miss you, 

Remember I'll always be true

And then while I'm away

I'll write home every day

And I'll send all my loving to you

I'll pretend that I'm kissing

The lips I am missing

And hope that my dreams will come true

And then while I'm away

I'll write home every day

And I'll send all my loving to you"

You would be so proud of him. He is working so hard to provide for his little family and choose joy each day. You changed his life too, sweet baby boy. You made him an even better man. 

Next, I want you to know that you are not forgotten. You wouldn't believe the amount of people, who almost 8 months later, are still thinking about you. People are still donating to NICU, ministering to us during this hard time, and doing many things to raise money for NICU, your home for the first part of your precious life. People are continuing to be changed by your life. I have been told that you have helped others choose joy, learn to pray more, and be more appreciative of their own children. You blessed so many people. You will never be forgotten. 

Sweet baby boy I want you to know that we are doing our best. We are trying 

 so hard to trust in the Lord and choose joy each day. Your daddy and I think about you constantly. My heart aches to hold you, to love on you, to feed you and help you grow. I long for more moments, but I am relying on God to help me understand that this is all in His plan. 

If we are ever blessed with more children I promise to tell them all about you. You will always be my first son, my first beautiful baby. Future children will always know that they have an older brother who now lives with Jesus. 

I also want you to know that I'm kind of jealous of you! I can't imagine the glory of Heaven that you are experiencing. I know that in the short time I taught you about our Lord. We read about Him and sang about Him, and now you are praising Him at His feet every second of the day! I wish you could tell me all about it! 

Ben, even though I tried... words can't even express what all I want to tell you, say to you. You were the most amazing person I know. I wish I could say that I have touched as many lives in my almost 30 years as you did during your short time. You are truly an inspiration and I admire you. 

I love you always. I love you forever. You will always be my baby. I will always be your mommy. You are so loved. I will see you one day again, and I will scoop you up and hold you forever. We can praise Jesus beside one another for eternity. 

I love you. 

- Mommy

52 days

Our journey has had so many ups and downs. So many trials, so many successes. Our journey is still continuing, and we are still experiencing those ups and downs and heart breaking trials. It will probably never be over.

52 days.

52 days is how long I had with my sweet baby Ben. He spent most of that in NICU, but we had some beautiful, precious times at home as a family. The Lord was faithful, and He gave us that time together. My husband, Ben, is an amazing father. He knew exactly what to do when I questioned my ability. We grew as a close-knit family, including our fur baby, Heidi, who absolutely adored her baby brother.

But 52 days. That's not long enough. That's not enough days at all. We just didn't, in my small opinion, have enough time. However, I will cherish each second of those 52 days for the rest of my life.

But let me explain something to you...

In baby Ben's 52 days, he reached people. He reached their hearts, and he touched their lives. Think about your past 52 days... What have you done to make a difference? I'll be super honest... The past 52 days I have cried, I have shouted prayers to my Lord, I have written in my journal, I have hidden from the world, and I have been incredibly broken.

Yes, I have my days where I get up and decide to choose joy and I accomplish things, small victories, but mostly I have just been here, just existing. And I can't help that.

My husband and I have been seeing an amazing counselor to help us through this tragic grieving process. I have seen doctors and I have been closely watched. I have depression, whether that be post partum depression or "regular" depression. I have ignored it for quite some time, but I am finally on the path that I need to be on for healing. For almost a year I cried out in my raspy, shaky voice, for Jehovah Rapha to heal my son. Now I am doing the same thing, but I'm asking Him to heal me.

I don't feel like myself, I'm not myself. I want to be, I try to be, but I just can't be. I'm praying that the medical professionals can help me fix it, but let's be real, I'm mostly relying on Jehovah Rapha to heal me.

I have to believe with all of my heart that I'm experiencing this for a reason. Our resurrected King has a plan for me, for my family. I have to believe that we are not forgotten. Yes, the funeral month passed. Yes, people lifted us in their prayers, people got down on their knees for us, and I am eternally grateful for that. But please understand that we still desperately need and covet your prayers.

I wish I could say that in the past 52 days I did as much good as my baby did, but I cant, and I haven't. And that is eye opening. I have decided to do the very best I can to encourage people and help others just as my sweet baby boy did. I know that Ben would be proud of us if we would be strong, faithful believers. That we cling to that Anchor and we change lives.

Hope has a name. Joy has a name. And that name is Jesus Christ. If you, in whatever your situation may be, are claiming hope or searching for happiness, and you are trying to do it alone, then God bless you. I don't know how you do it.

As I've written before: He is the one that picks me up when I'm sobbing on the floor. He's the one that somehow brings a spark of joy to my heart when I am utterly depressed. He has that incredible power to comfort us, care for us, and heal us. Only He can provide that. He's the one that walks with us through the toughest times and hears our hearts.

I believe that baby Ben understood this, somehow, in his tiny baby brain. I know that he reached more people in his 52 days than I have in my 28 years. But I'm ready now. I'm ready to continue the legacy Benjamin Michael started. I'm ready to start changing lives. Are you?

So I am proposing a challenge to you, friends. For the next 52 days, make the choice to make a difference. Make the choice to reach people. Make the choice to trust Him in your darkest moments. Make the choice to choose joy. And make the choice to celebrate those victories, no matter how small. Let's do it together. Let's celebrate together the difference that we are making. It can be anything from "Today I put on pants" to the greatest feat you can imagine. Each and every single victory should be celebrated. Let's encourage one another, in honor of my baby Ben, to make a difference in this world.

Comment on the blog, comment on facebook, use the hashtag, share how you're choosing to make a difference. Let's celebrate together each other's victories. Let's encourage one another. Let's band together as people, as believers, and let's do this.

52 days. Just shy of 2 months. See what you can do in 52 small days. 52 days brings us to  July 17th. How big of an impact can you make, how can you change the world by then? Let's do this together. I know you can do it. I know WE can do it.  I know you can make a difference. Let's make a difference together.

#babyben52daychallenge

We can do this. I believe in you.

"So be truly glad. There is wonderful JOY ahead, even though you must endure many trials for a little while." 1 Peter 1:6

Choose Joy,
Allison

Share your victories on my facebook here
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Share your victories by commenting on this blog post
use the hash tag #babyben52daychallenge

to the women that saved my baby's life... every day

We didn't have good NICU/SCN nurses. We didn't even have great nurses. We had phenomenal nurses.

These women are incredible. They're special. They're called. They're dedicated. They're amazing They're so many things... But to me, mostly, they're heroes.

You have no idea how much your little choices in your life impacted mine.  You chose to get up every morning (or evening). You chose to drive to work. You chose to go to shift change and learn about my baby. You chose to save my son's life... every day.

When I was creating my birth plan I never thought of you.You never crossed my mind. I had never seen a NICU, I had never even imagined that you existed. I had no idea that for the first month of my son's life you would be the one caring for him. Most people have no idea what you do, they've never thought about it, much like myself before I was faced with the situation. Except now I know.

I know that behind those 2 sections of alarmed doors, behind the video doorbell security system, behind the parent scrub in station, and behind the check in counter, you pour your heart out into tiny little lives day after day.

I had no idea that you would be the one to change by baby's diaper. I had no idea that you would be the one to feed him his little bottles or rock him when he cries when I wasn't there. I never imagined that you would be the one to sit me down a week after he was born and hand him to me for the very first time. I didn't know that you would be the one to know his facial expression for when he was hungry or when he needed his diaper changed.  I didn't know you would be the one to talk to him in a soft voice when he started to get upset. I didn't know you were going to be the one.

 I was so jealous of you.

I was jealous that if you wanted to know how he was doing, you could simply look over at him. I had to call the hospital, give my 4 digit secret code, and ask you.

I was jealous that when he cried at night you were the one to comfort him.

I was jealous that you were the one to give him his first bath, give him his first feeding, and change his first dirty diaper.

In a very odd way I was even jealous that he peed on you when you changed his diaper rather than me.

Except I couldn't dislike you. Yes, I was envious... but I loved you.

Every single time I think about my little miracle's life, his story, I think about you.

I think about how you didn't just save my baby's life. In a way you saved mine too.

You taught me so much.

You taught me what it meant when Ben made a certain face, you had seen it for 12 hours day after day. You taught me how to breastfeed, even when it got hard. You taught me how to change his dressing on his omphalocele, and you did it calmly, knowing it broke my heart to have to learn that. You taught me how to feed him, how to burp him, how to hold him. You taught me his feeding schedule, you were perfect at it from your weeks with him. You taught me how to read his monitors... What a normal heart rate, pulse, and respiratory number should be. You also taught me not to obsess and stare at his monitors, but to read my baby. You taught me how do that.

You heard me.

You heard me cry over my son. You heard me pray for endless hours over him. You heard me sing to him, in my tired and raspy voice. You heard me read the same books in my same mommy voice day after day. You heard me struggle, you heard me rejoice.

You sat with me. You held my hand. You hugged me. You even cried with me. After the doctors left and I was in shock and had no idea what they were saying, you sat down beside me, looked me in the eyes, held my hand, and calmly explained everything, in words that I understood. You let me ask the same question over and over. You patiently answered the phone every hour and reassured me he was okay throughout the night.

Most people don't know what you do. They don't know you. But I do. I know that you save lives constantly. You think your job is just to save the tiny lives, but you save the grown up lives too. You helped me when no one else could.

You helped me during the darkest of days. When no one understood, when no one knew, you did. Most times you knew even better than I did.

You give your everything everyday to families in crisis. You spend 12 hours straight with 1 or 2 babies, watching over them and rushing to help them. When you're not at work you think about our babies. I've even heard you call and ask about the status of one of them while you were at home "relaxing."

I'm blown away by you.

What I'm trying to say is "thank you." Stupid words on a computer screen will never be adequate. I'll never ever be able to give back to you what you gave to me.

Thank you for teaching me, thank you for sitting with me, thank you for hearing me, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for holding my hand. Thank you for acting like it was perfectly normal for me get excited because he was finally able to be fed again or the fact that he pooped. Thank you for acting like it was normal for me to sob with you. Thank you for sending me home when you saw the dark circles under my eyes and my inability to keep my eyes open. Thank you for texting me pictures of him, even if maybe you weren't really supposed to. Thank you for choosing to do what you do. Thank you for deciding, every day, to save lives.

Most people have no idea what you do. They don't know how important you are or how crucial your role is. They have no clue that you play an incredible part in people's lives, but I do.

I know how truly amazing you are. I will never be able to tell the story of our journey without talking about you. You are a part of our miracle story. You are irreplaceable. You are giving and kind. You are selfless. You are impeccable. You are appreciated. You are so freaking appreciated. I am a better person for knowing you.

Choose joy,
Allison

Empty Womb, Empty Room

I have written many pages in my journal about this. Through my tears, my vision blurred, I have written, but it has been very hard to type this post out.  It has taken me longer than normal to finish this post because it breaks my heart to write the words. I apologize for the delay.


Please don't read this and think that I am constantly a mess. I am a very proud momma, I love my time with my sweet baby. I am enjoying life not pregnant! I even got to go on a DATE with my handsome husband! There are many positives.

This is post is about my first days at home after leaving my baby for the first time. And those days were hard. Those days were dark.
.....

I was finally being discharged from the hospital. I had been excited about this day for quite some time. Although I had done my best to make that hospital room our "home," it just wasn't. It was time to go home, to my real home. For the first time in a while.

Everyone knows the rules, new mommas have to be rolled out in wheel chairs.

There I was, sitting in a wheel chair. Ben was walking in front of me, pushing a cart full of our bags and gifts from our families. My wheelchair was being pushed by our sweet nurse, and ordinarily, this sounds perfectly normal.

We got into the elevator, and with each level the elevator went down, my heart sank a little bit more. As we reached the ground level, I'm pretty sure my heart reached rock bottom.

My nurse rolled me out of the elevator and on towards the exit. And I couldn't help but to notice... to compare.  Most momma's get rolled out of the hospital in a wheel chair too, that we had in common. In that fashion I was normal. However in other momma's laps there were carriers that held babies.
Their new, fresh-smelling, perfect babies.

In my lap I held nothing.

My lap was empty.

My heart was empty.

The nurse handed me a bouquet of flowers, and then I held something. I smelled it, but it didn't smell like a new born baby.  I felt it, but I felt pricks from thorns, not the smooth skin of my beautiful, soft baby.

On the ride home I tried to come up with things to occupy my mind, my heart, but it didn't work.

We reached home just a short 15 minutes later, and somehow although I was holding flowers, bags, and pillows... my heart and my lap felt even more empty than it did before.

As I walked into my house for the first time in 2 weeks, I thought I would feel joy.  I missed the smell of my home.  I missed the excitement of my puppy Heidi, I missed the blue and white stairs that led me upstairs to my comfy bedroom, to my son's nursery we worked so hard on.  I missed the candles on the coffee table.  I missed my cast iron skillet on my stove. I missed it all. This now, even with the anticipation built, meant nothing. It all meant nothing... Because my heart, my lap, and my arms were empty.

I realized for the first time ever that I was home without my son.  And my heart shattered.

When we toured this house I was pregnant with my son. When we moved in, my son was in my belly listening to me unpack those boxes.  He was here when we decided on the paint color for his nursery. He was there for my months of bed rest.  He was here as I spent hours in his unfinished room, crying out to God to help me.

My son was there as my husband picked me up of the floor and ushered me to the shower. He had been here for everything.  But now, he wasn't here. Instead, he was lying in a diaper, under a heater and blankets, hooked to his machines, on the 8th floor of a hospital, and I was at our home.

I did my best to get used to life at home without my son. I saw my "choose joy" items, and now I had to work hard to choose that joy. I had to work hard to find it at home.

I tried to set up my home in a way that would make me choose joy-- I set up my pumping station in Ben's nursery. I was on a strict 3 hour pumping schedule, like my son was there and hungry, every hour he would eat- I would pump.  I set up a pumping parts cleaning station in his bathroom. All of this was so that I would associate Ben's areas of the house with something positive... Something MUSC's counselor's told me I should do.

But choosing joy at this point was hard.  Choosing joy, in those moments, was just impossible. Sometimes I think those counselors get paid to feed me bull crap. I'm just being honest. I did everything they told me, and I still felt empty.

My womb, for the first time in almost a year, was empty.  My son's room, was empty. My arms and lap were empty. My heart and my soul were empty. My eyes, after many hours, were empty.

I began to cry out, with almost dry eyes and a raspy voice, again to my Savior.  My prayers of healing my son were now more real. My prayers were from the heart of a broken momma, desperate for healing for her helpless son.

I pray for him constantly, with almost every conscious thought. I pray as I shower, as I pump. I pray as I walk from the entrance of MUSC and I make my way to his bed...I make those turns... I could do it in my sleep.... right, left, right, left, elevator....... right, left, ring the intercom, enter, left, turn in my cooler of breast milk, scrub in, right, right, right.... The whole way, I pray.

My prayers now are from the bottom of my heart. They are the most honest and the most real prayers I have every prayed before.  I praise Him for each tiny milestone we hit. I beg Him to protect my son, to hold him in His strong hands. I beg Him to heal my little baby. That is my heart's cry.

But I know He hears me. He hears this momma's heart, this momma's soul.  He hears this desperate momma's tears as I leave my son every night.  He hears this momma's loud sobs and tears at night as I sit in the nursery, pumping, not breast feeding as I so desire to do. He hears me. He sees me.

I'm getting used to my new life now. My life in the nicu.  I sit with him for hours now, I read to him, I talk to him, and I sing to him... I sing "Jesus Loves Me." I still can't make it through the whole song... Maybe only once or twice I have been able to.  The line "They are weak, but He is strong" gets me every time. I just weep.

I'm clinging to that simple children's song. Because just as it applies to my tiny, helpless son, it applies to me.  I am weak.  I am broken. I am needy. I am absolutely at my weakest, but He is strong. He's going to help me through this.  He's wrapping His strong arms around me, and He is comforting me.  He picks me up. He carries me. He walks with me through this journey. He's helping me find the joy in this. He's helping me celebrate each tiny victory. He's showing me, yet again, that He is faithful. He is the Ultimate Healer, and our story is far from over. Our story, our journey is just beginning.

Each day is a little better,. Each day I see that He is even more faithful. Each day brings hope.

Each day I become stronger. Each day, I am the best nicu momma I can be. Each day I can't wait to get my hands on my sweet little ducky, and I cherish those hours holding him, talking to him, reading to him, singing to him.

 Every single day, my Ultimate Healer heals my heart just a little bit more.



Choose Joy,
Allison

The Best Christmas Gift

It was quite a different Christmas season all together. I missed my Christmas Eve traditions- shopping at the mall with my mom (not because we needed anything, but because we are crazy), getting out in the hustle bustle, buying Christmas PJ's for Ben, Christmas Eve service at First North, spending time with my family eating our usual Christmas Eve dinner of oyster stew. I just missed the tradition!

I decorated our little hospital room, "home" as we had come to call it, with a small Christmas tree from Ben's nursery, paper chains that I made, and Baby Ben's stocking. I filled the air with my favorite holiday blend of essential oils, I did everything I could to make it feel "Christmassy."

Christmas Day we ate a "holiday feast" from the cafeteria downstairs. I have to say, I wasn't mad at that meal! It was pretty yummy, considering. I passed out small gift bags to the nurses, I wore my snowman shirt that I made, emphasizing my large pregnant belly, and everyone here got quite a kick out of it. I said "Merry Christmas" to anyone who would look my way. I was trying... hard... to make this a joyful Christmas, even though we were "stuck" here.

Katie and Bryan, some sweet, selfless friends, came to visit, along with some family members! We opened some gifts and that brightened our day. We all love gifts, right?!

Throughout the whole day (and day before) I was definitely uncomfortable, but I didn't think much of it. I've been uncomfortable since October 15th, the day we were first admitted to antepartum at MUSC. So I just kept on, determined to celebrate Jesus' birthday the best I could.

Meanwhile, Baby Ben had his own plans. That boy is determined, I tell ya! I was having contractions pretty consistently, but again, I didn't think much of it. As the day passed and evening fell I realized this wasn't normal. I called the doctor in, and I heard what I already knew he was going to say... "We are really shooting for Tuesday!" At that point, to say I did not like that doctor was an incredible understatement... I was in some serious pain.

I'm a pretty calm person, my voice level has been perfected due to years of teaching, I can remain calm in just about any situation. When I envisioned being in labor I totally thought I'd be calm, quietly enduring each one. HA!!!! Nope. Not me! I shouted, I cried, I said mean things, I apologized, etc... Yeah, definitely not what I envisioned, but hey, mommas out there-- you know where I'm coming from!

As the hours passed and the contractions became excruciating, he finally believed me that we were having our baby that night. I had been in active labor for  many hours, and I was dilated to a 5, all without any medication. My poor husband's hands were various shades from white to purple due to me squeezing them with every ounce of strength I had. He listened intently as I explained my not- so- nice feelings about this doctor, and he did his very best to encourage me through every contraction, keeping tabs on how frequent they were. When I thought I couldn't handle it anymore, he was so supportive. I desperately needed him, and he was amazing. Thanks babe, and sorry I yelled so much!

I was relieved that that silly doctor finally believed me. I didn't hate him quite as much. (Doc, if you're reading this, you know we're cool now, but I'm pretty sure you knew how I felt about you in those hormonal, painful hours!)

I was feeling so many different emotions... fear, excitement, panic, joy, elation, sadness, you name an emotion on that crazy spectrum and I bet you I was experiencing it. It was a crazy feeling.

I was finally rolled into the OR in Labor and Delivery at 11:04 pm (5 hours after my active labor began) where I was prepped and finally received that much needed pain medication in my back. Ben was dressed in his "dad scrubs," and he finally joined me in the room around 11:20. I have never been so excited to see that man, as funny as he looked in his blue booties, scrub pants and top, mask, and funny hair net. I needed his comfort and support!

They began the c-section, and I just constantly prayed. I had confidence in the doctors, they're the best in the world. I really wasn't worried about the baby being ready or being born too early. For some reason, that wasn't really a fear anymore at all. My biggest fear was that the membrane on his omphalocele ("o") was going to rupture. There was a super thin membrane holding all of his little organs in, and if that ruptured we were going to be facing some devastating situations. I prayed every second of that c-section... Every second.

At 11:48 pm on Christmas Night my amazing son (oh heavens, I can hardly read what I'm typing through the tears!) was born. My Benjamin Michael Peters was born! They lifted him for 1 second, and I could only see the top of his head. Then he was gone.

They rushed him out of the room with hushed voices and wide- eyed looks at one another. Only their eyes were showing, their masks and hair nets covered the rest, but it was obvious. I could see it all in their eyes, they just hadn't said what was wrong yet. But as they were flying out of the OR with my brand new baby boy that I could not see, I heard it. I heard the most gorgeous, beautiful, fulfilling noise I have ever heard. I heard my son cry. And I wept.

As they were finishing up with me, my husband got to go see Ben get cleaned up and prepped for NICU. As I'm lying on the table, they said they had some information for me. My heart sank. "Great, here it comes..." I thought to myself.

They told me that his membrane had been "nicked" during the birth, but it did not rupture. There was a small hole in the membrane. If it's kind of hard to imagine what I'm talking about, imagine blowing bubbles with a child. That bubble is about how thin the membrane is, somehow holding in his intestine, bowels, liver, and some of his stomach. They worked quickly to repair the small hole, and somehow, they did it.

Yes it had a small hole, but the membrane did not rupture!! Add that to the list of miracles that God has performed throughout this journey.

A little while later, I was in recovery, and my husband joined me. I have never seen my husband look like this. I have never seen him stand as tall as he was, I have never seen that sparkle in his eyes, I have never seen his face glowing quite like it was just then. This man was proud. He was a proud daddy, and it was such a precious sight. He melted my heart and I fell even more in love with that man than ever.

They finally let Baby Ben come in the room before they took him to NICU. We had about 3-4 minutes. He was laying in an incubator on his side, facing me. I have never felt so much love in my life. His eyes were wide, and we connected our eyes for just a second. I got to touch his foot, and I just wept.

There, in front of my eyes, was my miracle baby. The child that God had sustained for 2 months and 10 days in my incompetent womb was finally here. The child that so many people had been praying for was here. The child that I have felt kicking and turning in my belly for months was here. My son, my baby, my everything, was here.

God is writing the most beautiful story though Benjamin Michael. He has used my son in so many ways already while inside my tummy, and I can't imagine how He's going to use him here in this world. I am overwhelmed with gratitude and thanks to my God, who has had His hand on my son from day 1 of this long, rough journey. I am so excited to be able to be a part of Ben's love story that our Father is writing.



Father,
Thank You, thank You, thank You! Thank you for caring for Ben. Thank You for sustaining him in my incompetent tummy for so long. Thank You for working miracles. Thank You for protecting him, for protecting that bubble- thin membrane. Ben is Your child before he is mine. Please continue to write his story, it is already so beautiful. You have made Yourself so evident, so real, so obvious throughout this journey, and even more so now, as this miracle baby breathes on his own in this world. I pray that with every breath from his little lungs that You would be glorified. When people see my baby, may they see Your face, Your handy-work, Your power, Your miracles. Thank You, Jesus. I love you.

...
Our journey is far from over. In some ways, it's just beginning. Our next chapter is life in the NICU, and I have already learned that no matter how hard I attempted to prepare myself for this, it is impossible.

Thank you to those of you that have dedicated time to spend in prayer for Ben. Thank you for helping this miracle baby enter the world. As we see, the power of prayer is undeniable. Please continue to cover my little family in prayer. As we move to the next chapter of our journey, please cry out our names to our Lord, to our Jehovah Rapha.

Merry Christmas, friends! I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. I certainly received the most amazing Christmas gift I could ever imagine!

Choose Joy,
Allison (Mommy)

BMP loves his pacie!

The day Ben can wear this shirt we will throw a HUGE party! 

He is truly our miracle baby! 

Remembering His Greatest Promise

I've dreaded hitting the publish button on this one. What will people think when they read my deepest fears typed out into real words? Some of these I haven't even said out loud. Will this transparency translate to "bad mom" or "weak"? Well, this is my heart. I am a human, a scared human.
- A



Some nights I sit in Ben's nursery and I look out the large windows and I see all of the stars shining in the sky. The sky has been so clear, and I can see every single star sparkling like glitter on a beautiful ribbon wrapped around a Christmas gift.

I wasn't really thinking about anything. I was just sitting. My mind was wandering. I realized that every star I saw that night, I was thinking of a fear I have about my son.

Will his stomach float out more into the omphalocele?

Once he comes, will the doctors and surgeons say it's worse than they expected?

Will he be made fun of by other children when he goes to a swim party because of his large scar across his tummy?

The looks from other moms when they see this defect growing from his tummy.

Will he be able to be fed?

Has he gained enough weight?

Will he be able to breathe on his own?

The first time I see the omphalocele, not in a picture, but in real life. On my tiny baby.

How will that make me feel?

Can I handle seeing it?

Will he make it?

Will several surgeries be too much for his little tiny body?

.......


That night I was overwhelmed with fear. The kind of fear that makes you feel like you're about to throw up, the kind of fear that makes your whole body sweat even though you have chills, the kind of fear that makes you shake and quiver, the kind of fear that takes over your body and your mind.

I'm just plain scared.

When I came out of that dark place in my mind I prayed my prayer of little words.

You know, He never ever promised that things would be perfect. He never promised that things would be easy. In fact, most people face pretty crappy situations in their lives. People face horrible tragedies, loss, crisis. He never promised it would be perfect, and it sure isn't.

He did, however, promise to be enough. And He is.

I just have to trust in Him, there's no one else that I can trust in.

I believe that He's Jehovah Rapha, the Ultimate Healer.

I believe that He's more then enough for me, more than enough for my baby.

I also believe that there's a reason that all of this is happening around Christmas time. The greatest promise that He ever gave to mankind was in the form of a baby. I bet you Mary was terrified. Their situation was so far from perfect. Can you imagine how Mary must have felt? Probably even more scared than I am. Their situation was terrible. No place to stay, going into labor, and riding on a donkey. Let me tell you one thing... If Ben suggested I hop up on a donkey right now and make a long journey I'd punch him square in the gut! Literally, nothing went right for them leading up to the birth, but look what that terrible situation turned into.

It's amazing that His greatest, most powerful, amazing promise was a baby.

Your situation may be absolutely terrible. Your journey may be ugly. Your heart may be broken. And that's okay. We're human.

Momma, it's okay to be scared. Teacher, it's okay to be exhausted. Daddy, it's okay to feel burdened. Secretary, it's okay to feel annoyed. Wife, it's okay to feel lost. Student, it's okay to feel stressed out. Daughter, it's okay feel distraught. Who ever you are, whatever you do, you're a human and you will feel these horrific feelings.

But many years ago there was a baby, and that led to a cross, and that led to an empty tomb.


I am scared. No, I'm terrified... But I'm not going to let that darkness over take me. That baby is our refuge. He's faithful. He's with me. I'm not alone. I know I'm not. He walked this journey before me, and He's walking it with me now. He is taking my fear, and He is drawing me closer through that.

You're not alone. Just remember that incredible baby that changed our world.






Choose Joy,
Allison

Ben's Mom

Friday we had another round of appointments at MUSC. Things went well, nothing had really changed... Ben is still ready to make his entrance into the world, but we are continuing to pray he stays put at least a little longer! This day of appointments was filled with much less anxiety than the last visit! We got to see his sweet little face, and that always makes me so happy!

Friday was the first time I had felt good about myself in weeks. I had brushed my hair, even ran a flat iron through it, I had makeup on, and I had even put on real clothes! (Ladies that have been on bed rest, you know that's a big accomplishment!) We decided that since I felt good, we would go to dinner! A real dinner! Not propped up on our bed in a maternity tank top, not sitting on the couch with crazy wild hair that hadn't been brushed all day. A real dinner.... At a restaurant!

Ben chose a place that was close by, of course! We walked in to this place I had never been before and we ordered and we began a light hearted, fun date night that we so desperately needed. We giggled, we talked about Ben, we played, we joked. It was perfect.

During our wonderful meal a lady approached our table. A "stranger." She stopped and asked me quietly, "Are you Ben's mom?" Caught off guard, I said "Yes." She introduced herself, and we chatted for a couple of minutes. Somehow she had stumbled across our story, and she had been following Ben's journey and progress, and she recognized me from the pictures. She encouraged us in our long, rough journey.  I was so glad she came over to our table! She was kind hearted, and she spoke from a genuine heart. She had no idea how huge of an impact she would end up having on me, and to be honest, it hadn't sunk in all the way for me either.

I really appreciated all of her heart-felt encouragement, but the most powerful thing she said to me were the smallest of words, "Ben's mom." She asked me if I was Ben's mom.

I hung on to that.

It resonated in my mind for the next few hours.

Ben's mom.

Later that night, I sat down in my place, my peaceful gray glider in the nursery, and I looked at the new ultrasound pictures that were printed for us earlier that day. He is getting bigger; I looked at his precious face, his perfect hands, his strong little features. I hugged my belly tight, able to see his little kicks through my blue sweater night gown... and I was overcome with emotions. Yes, absolutely, I am Ben's mom. I am Ben's MOM!

In my 28 years, I have had many names, many roles:
believer
wife
teacher
daughter
friend
sister
etc...

But tonight for the first time I heard my new name from the lips of a stranger new friend. And that name was beautiful. That name was powerful. That name is so humbling... To know that God is allowing me, a nobody, to be a part of little Ben's huge miracle story.

Ben is already making an impact on people. He is already proving that this isn't all about science. My son is showing the world, already, that God is still creating miracles daily. Ben's story is going to be heard by many people.

I am truly not worthy of such an enormous role in Ben's incredible story. My body is supposedly not capable to endure this role, but I am so grateful He is giving me the opportunity to be a part of this. I'm just thankful to have the opportunity, this chance.

My new name is so beautiful, so wonderful.... It is So. Incredibly. Humbling.

Ben's mom. Ben's mom. That's me! I am Ben's mom, and I am filled with joy because I have been entrusted with that name.

Choose Joy,
Allison

My Precious Son-
You are a miracle. You are so incredibly loved by so many people. You are a gift. Your name is cried out before our Lord by many, many people. You are proof of the power of prayer.

You are going to have to overcome major physical hurdles as a tiny baby, but you can do it. You are fierce. You are a fighter.

One day you are going to move mountains. You are going to continue to defy all odds. You are so strong. You, my sweet baby boy, will be a living testimony of the power and strength of our Anchor. I can't wait to watch you walk your journey.

Keep fighting, Ben. Keep growing big and strong in my "incompetent body." Keep defying odds. You've got a beautiful journey ahead of you.

Momma loves you.

Anxiety and Anchors

"We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure." 

Hebrews 6:19

 

Yesterday we sat in the waiting room that I've come to know so well. 3 big pictures of Downtown Charleston on big canvases, a TV in the corner that always has terrible shows on, and an out of order water machine. The room was filled with anxiety, my anxiety. It was pretty palpable, and apparently my face totally gave me away, despite my efforts to hide it. 

We were there to have my cervix, my  incompetent cervix, measured. We learned that it was short a while back, and that means preterm labor. Another dreaded date with that horrible ultrasound thing. Not the fun kind. I know what to do, I've done it too many times before. So there, in the small room, filled with machines and screens I did what I needed to and waited on the table for her to come back in. 

I sat there, exposed, waiting to hear, yet again, how my body wasn't good enough for my baby. Technically, my body is incompetent, and I'm tired of hearing it. I'm tired of hearing I can't provide a good enough place for my boy to grow big and strong. 

At this point I'm completely anxiety ridden. Convincing myself not to have a panic attack in that dark room. We learned that my cervix is now half a millimeter, and that's all that's keeping baby Ben in there! He's also head down, ready to come into this world. (He's already hard headed and determined like his Daddy.)

Lying there, listening to the ultrasound tech, fighting back tears, holding off a panic attack, and staring at the off white, speckled tile on the ceiling I remembered I just need to be hopeful, I just needed to cling to my Anchor.

 

Some girls have beautiful pregnancies, full of delightful ultrasounds, positive appointments, and butterflies as they await meeting their doctors. I'd be lying if I said sometimes I wish mine was a little more like that, but that's not our journey. That's not in our miracle story. Our visits are a little less beautiful, and they're a little less positive. Basically I just try not to pass out or throw up. Don't get me wrong, friends... I LOVE being pregnant. There is nothing I delight more in than feeling my precious son wiggle and dance in my big belly. It's the most precious thing in the world. But when it comes to the appointments, that's where it really just stinks. Ever since September when we found out about the omphalocele we have not had 1 appointment where it was completely fine or positive. And that can wear ya down, especially a hormonal pregnant woman. (Especially one who cries over simple things like mozzarella sticks and fruit cups!)

So now in the even smaller exam room, I waited for the doctor, my favorite doctor in the group. The nurse came in and I was convinced she was hiding bad news from me. I immediately asked her what was going on, just tell me, don't make me wait for the doctor. She backed up with her hands up and said, I was just asked to take your vitals! Poor woman. The doctor finally came in and  he brought in a woman that I have seen around, and who has worked with us because we are high risk. In my panicked, anxiety ridden mind, that meant he was going to give me bad news and this woman was going to console me. It's amazing what your mind can do to you. As soon as he walked in he noticed my radiating anxiety and tried to make me feel better, as he carefully guided and guarded his words as to not give me false hope. They do that so well... 

Ultimately, nothing else, really important, was wrong now that we didn't already know about. (Except the cervix being almost non existent). 

We know about the giant omphalocele. We know what organs are outside of his body. We know that his stomach is small for his body, but that is to be expected with his "o." We know my cervix is incompetent. We know he's trying to come early. We know it's very scary to combine the "o" and premature birth. We know, we know, we know.

But truly, I have hope. I have to. I've been clinging to Hebrews 6:19 lately, and I just have to claim it. "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure..." He is our anchor, He is our hope, He alone provides that security. 

At this time in my life, I have really experienced that hope, I have experienced Him being my only anchor. I have learned to stop saying "Okay... what else could possibly go wrong?!" Because something else can always go wrong, I promise. 

I've moved on to a season in my life where I just have to cling to hope, cling to my Anchor and accept our journey full of challenges, embrace our miracle story.

I am a part of a couple of support groups, and I have learned that, although our situation is truly terrifying, although my heart is shattered for my baby boy, and although I know this road is going to be a hard, rough, long journey, we actually have a lot to be thankful for. 

I'm going to continue to choose joy. I'm going to continue to be hopeful. I'm going to continue to cling to my Anchor. Because if I don't, I couldn't make it. That's the absolute only way I can face each scary day filled with the unknown. I decided to incorporate the anchor theme into Ben's room, which has also served as my "war room." (Check out the pictures below!)

I encourage you to cling to our Anchor in your own journey, friends. It's really the only way.

Choose Joy,

Allison

Check out what Team Peters has been up to in our little world for the past couple of weeks!

Ben working hard on the wall above the crib!

Finished this part of the wall, and almost finished crib bedding! 

Sunday, 27 weeks! 

Heidi being the best bed rest companion ever! She never leaves my side!

My Father

Over the past couple of weeks I have been overwhelmed by the amount of people that care for us.  People have reached out to me telling me that they are praying for my son, I have received cards (which I'm making into a book for Ben), people have sent messages, texts, and calls checking on us, praying over us, and just talking to me- taking my mind off of what's going on. People have sent food, movies, books, arts and crafts, magazines, and items to keep me busy while I'm stuck in the bed.

Truly, our fridge, pantry, freezer, and hearts have never been so full.

People are making it easier for me to keep baby Ben "cooking," and I am so thankful. I am so incredibly thankful for each and every person that has gone out of their way to reach out to us in some way. I absolutely can't wait to tell my son about the amount of people that care about him already!

THANK YOU, FRIENDS!

During my hospital stay my mom was sick with a fever, and you best believe not one person on staff at MUSC would allow her to come anywhere close to that building! I knew she wanted to be with me, I knew she wanted to hug me. I now get that "mom feeling" of just wanting to do anything possible for your baby.

My mom got to feeling better, and a few days ago my parents came to visit. I was so anxious to see them. Sometimes all a kid needs is time with their parents. If you haven't gotten to that stage in your life, you will. You go through that phase when you think you're a grown up and you can totally handle "adulting" on your own. HA! Trust me, you'll always need your Mom and Dad.

Anyway, my parents came at just the right time. I was so tired of laying on my back, sitting on the couch. Staring at the same walls. My dad carefully unpacked every food item people sent, cleaned out my freezer and restocked it. My dad listened and prayed. They brought me new clothes that will be comfortable wearing while I'm stuck on bed rest. My mom carefully selected movies, old and new, to keep me entertained, she brought me a beautiful coloring book, colored pencils, and a sharpener. She brought me a stuffed animal that played calming sounds. She literally thought of everything.

I was thankful. Truly, I was extremely thankful for each item that they lugged in with them. But more than any tangible thing, I was so incredibly thankful for their presence. Being near them was exactly what my child like heart needed at that time.

Because I'm on bed rest, I obviously can't do much, but we got to do a little bit! We went to lunch at one of my favorite places, and we drove around all over Charleston (within my prescribed 20 mile radius of MUSC, of course!) They got me out of the house and got me into the car for some fresh air and some "new" sights. We talked about the heavy stuff, we talked about light-hearted things, we laughed, we were just together, and I needed nothing more, on that day, than to be with my mom and dad.

As I looked back and reflected on that time with my incredible parents, it reminded me of the relationship that we, as believers, have with our Father. He has many names, and Abba Father is such an important one.

We are His children. He desires to care for us, He desires for us to depend on Him. Let me tell you... Never before in my life have I been so dependent on Him. Ben and I are constantly facing battles lately, and it absolutely takes a toll on us physically, financially, and emotionally. But I have a Father to turn to.

I am so thankful to have a Father that cares for me.

A Father that understands my situation when no one else does.

A Father that listens to my heartache.

A Father I can cry to.

A Father that pulls me just a little closer as I sit in my place and yearn for my baby to be okay. 

A Father that can comfort me when the pieces of my heart are scattered on the beige carpet of my baby's nursery.

A Father that picks me up off of that beige carpet, and carries me.

The only way I have made it this far in this rocky journey is because my Father has carried me. When my heart is too heavy to keep filling out detailed paperwork about my son's defect, He carries me. When my ears are too tired to hear any more bad possible situations, He carries me. When my team of doctors ask me life altering questions and I am too heartbroken to form words, He carries me. When my eyes hurt from looking at those annoying sea turtles yet again, He carries me. When I literally can't make myself walk into MUSC for yet another dreaded appointment, He picks me up and He carries me.

I am so very thankful for my Father. I don't know how people go through life, full of ups and downs, full of issues and problems, full of heartbreak, without a Father. 

No matter what you're facing in your life: scary test results, parenting issues, big purchases, loss, heart break, let our Father carry you, friends.

"You are my Father, My God, and my Rock..." Psalm 89:26

Choose Joy,
Allison

LIttle Words

In the past 11 days we have spent 6 1/2 of them at MUSC.  I have mostly had fitful spurts of sleep, and I'm constantly waking up my poor husband to speak words of encouragement and calming to me.  My head pounds constantly because of one of the several medications I'm on, my back is in constant pain- partially from the constantly growing baby "bump," partially from spending so much time lying on it. But more than all of that, my heart aches for my sweet baby.

His "giant omphalocele."

My "incompetent" cervix (who even knew that was a real thing).

My emotions. He feels what I feel, he can sense my anxiety, when I'm heartbroken, sad, worried, etc...

My heart just aches for him. I know that he doesn't know any different, but those words don't always help.

Monday I sat in one of the many waiting rooms at MUSC children's hospital.  It was pretty, it really was. For a waiting room. Painted pretty, teal sea turtles adorned the walls, colorful butterflies were painted on some of the ceiling tiles.  Rachel Ray's show playing on the TV, and normally her laugh alone makes me laugh. But just not today.

I sat there, running on about 2 hours of sleep, with my patient husband who had calmed me from about 14 panic attacks in the past 18 hours, just sitting. My eyes wandered to the other visitors in the room. I thought of all of the happy, joyful mommas who have sat in that same exact seat I was sitting in. What other mommas have sat in that very room, that very same seat, super excited to go to their appointments? Did they find the sea turtles comforting? Because at this point I found them just plain annoying. Did they sit there with butterflies in their tummies because they were going to be able to see their perfect baby on the screens of the dark ultrasound room? I was sitting in that same seat, fighting a panic attack and trying my absolute hardest not to throw up on the carpet, visibly shaking.

I knew it was time to pray.  So many people pray gorgeous, eloquent, beautiful prayers.  Several people have placed their hands on my belly and done just that. But lately I just can't really find the words.

In my anxiety-ridden exhaustion, lately my prayers have been comprised of very few words.  "I trust You, give me peace." He sees my heart, He sees my pain. He knows the words that I wish I could put together to say to Him.

This was the day I had dreaded. We had 3 appointments: high risk ultrasound, meeting with our team of doctors, then meeting with our genetics counselor.

After waiting for what seemed like 3 years with those annoying sea turtles, we were ushered to a room much like the ones I have come to know so well. It was dark, filled with screens and machines. Without being told, I did what I knew I was supposed to: expose my big baby belly, lay down on the "bed," as close to the edge near the tech as I could, and fight down the vomit working it's way up my throat. But then I saw his face. His sweet, precious, beautiful face. The vomit feeling was gone, and for the first time in a couple of days a laugh, a real laugh, escaped from my lips. He was just so stinkin cute. He kicked and bumped the ultrasound thingy. He hates that thingy. I watched him make tons of faces, and I couldn't help but to laugh.  I knew that when I saw his face, I also saw His face. He was with me, He was calming me, He was protecting all of us. He was there, and He was in our corner.

Measurements were taken, pictures were made, all of that "good" stuff. Then off to the next waiting room where there were no teal sea turtles.

Next up- meeting with our team. We sat in a tiny room, I swear it had to be used in the past for a storage closet, waiting for doctors. (Insert typical joke about patients always having to wait for doctors here...)

This is the part I dreaded most of all. From my experience during this pregnancy, I have learned that doctors are required to tell you every possibility of each situation. This is not something I want to hear. I have chosen to focus on the good, encouraging part of OUR situation, but now I was going to be forced to hear what COULD happen.  I had heard it all before during our extended hospital stay. There were certain words and phrases that I dreaded more than anything. I knew that if I heard "possibility of still birth" one more time I was going to pull my hair out.

I met one of the high risk OB's, and 1 of Ben's surgeons. We sat facing them in this tiny room, and listened to their words. Well, I mostly listened. As a mom, my brain was also busy assessing them from head to toe. In that moment I was convinced that the cleanliness of their shoes was going to show their credentials for preforming an extremely high risk surgery on my infant.

They said a lot of words. They gave a lot of scenarios. They said some super scary phrases. My husband reads me so well, he knew exactly when to pat my back, squeeze my hand a little harder, or pull me a little closer on that plastic couch. I made it through the scary part, and I decided not to focus on it. We had heard worse in the hospital.

Basically, now we aren't just dealing with his ompalocele (his insides being on the outside), we are also dealing with premature birth. They explained the severity of the situation- those 2 huge issues being present for 1 infant. 

Yes, there is a chance that he won't make it to the surgery. Yes, there is a chance that he won't make it through the surgery. Yes, there's a chance that his lungs won't be able to function on their own. Yes, there is a chance that he won't be able to be fed... And if he can't be fed... Yes. I get it. I hear the words, I hear the possibilities.

I understand that these are very intense issues, but for some reason I just had a peace in my heart. For the first time ever in any of these meetings or appointments, I didn't cry. I had seen His face earlier, and I knew He was still with me. He pulled me a little closer and hugged me a little tighter with each short breath.  So many people take Him out of medical equations. I know that He's the ultimate Healer. He's Ben's Jehovah Rapha.  He's still in the miracle business. He's still healing tiny, precious babies with birth defects. He's still kissing the face of each tiny little human lying in incubators with tubes and wires covering their bodies.

This appointment was coming to a close and I had decided I loved these doctors. Seriously, I love them. (I guess their shoes were clean enough to convince me that they were capable of doing this surgery.) I am so thankful that we live here in Charleston and my son will be taken care of by these people. I trust them with my most precious little baby.  I have prayed for these doctors since I found out about the omphalocele, but now I had faces and names to put with those prayers. 

At the end of the meeting, the doctors stood up to shake our hands. I dodged the hand and hugged the surgeon as tightly as I could. I'm sure he probably told his wife about this crazy pregnant girl who hugged him so tight the breath was knocked out of him, but I couldn't help it.



"I trust You, give me peace." That's not a beautiful, eloquent prayer. It's nothing special. Those are just 6 little words, but it was my heart's cry.  He knew how deeply I meant each one of those words. He answers the beautifully scripted prayers, and he answers the short cries of His people all the same. I know that He acknowledged that I trust Him in this scary situation, and I know that He answered my prayer and provided His peace and presence.

He hears each small word, quiet cry, and silent thought that His people call to Him, and I am so thankful for His listening ears and His patient heart.


He hears you, friends. He hears your little words. I promise.

I'll keep praying my 6 little words, and I bet my bottom dollar that I'll keep seeing His face.

Choose Joy,
Allison