The True Story of Hurricane Isaac

I used to have thoughts that were dark and chilling of my son.  From the thought of him prior to conception, from the moment I knew I was pregnant, to knowing it was sustaining this time, his birth that terrified me in ways that make me stop breathing and even when I finally brought him home, so tiny and fragile.  The thoughts I would push deep inside and cringe. I pushed them down so far that when they would come up, they make a girl that doesn't cry, weep horribly.  The darkness and chill were a forest of fear of his death, that was planted firmly inside of me and grew monstrously.  He wasn't going to make it; I’d think about his death in so many disturbing moments, they’d seize me.  What mother thinks this!?

Well, a mother that never wanted to be mother a decade ago. She didn’t think she’d be any good or she’d want that burden, that constraining responsibility.  So she lived a life that wasn't good and wasn't constrained to prove her own point.  A mother that finally turned her life around in a meaningful direction and saw what she had been denying herself, she suddenly wanted so badly.  A mother that craved that child she never thought she’d want only to find it so hard. And then to miscarriage, and miscarriage, and miscarriage, and miscarriage, and……miscarriage. 

I had the deceptive thoughts ever growing in my private forest of fear,“Well, you lived the life you lived, you reap what you sow!” or “Maybe this is God’s way of proving a point, you didn’t want one, so you don’t get one!”  Oh, that was nothing but self-pity and foolish pride sulking in those thoughts, but those were the thoughts that seeped in, that festered and started with the fear of what I don’t deserve.

Miraculously Zachary found his way into our lives; and with it God’s peace that He wanted me to be a mother.  And his story is written, this story is Isaac’s and how I coped with my fears of his dying.

February 2012, I found out I was pregnant.  I smiled and shared with Marc.  But I knew better!  My sixth pregnancy, so what?  Just another one to cry about in a week or two; Marc and I knew better then to share, you don’t share this good news.  You don’t share it because deep down, it’s not good news, it will be sad news and people will just feel sorry for me. I didn’t want their pity, their tears, their words, their reassurance and its sounds awfully self-defeating, but I didn’t even want their prayers.  I didn’t want their looks, their words “It will happen when it’s meant to be” “I’d have a kid for you and give it to you” (yeah…cause getting pregnant is sooooo easy, we just can pop out a spare and gift wrap it for you) “Oh, I’m so sorry, how many times now?” 

Can you taste my bitterness? Can you just hear my anger?  Oh, I was angry, but it was my dirty little secret I kept firmly and secretly hidden in my dark little forest.  God had a lot of work to do on me. I’d smile my Christian smile and say my Christian words, like I was suppose to.  I've had to swallow some shallowness, some selfishness and have learned the hard and wonderful way; trusting in God means ALWAYS! Even when it hurts, even when it’s not seemingly fair; trusting in God means, he has a plan for you in the midst of the anger, the hurt and the pain.  It’s so easy in the rear-view mirror.  I didn’t know about Zachary. I didn’t know that God had hand pick a little boy to be our little boy and I didn’t know my heartache month after month, year after year was part of God’s awesome plan to point us towards fostering and adoption. And now, I thank God for those years of anger and disappointment- they were the hard road to a miracle. He knew His plan and it’s all that matters.

So I was pregnant, so what…….

Well, week by week by week I was okay! The baby was….okay!  I have a genetic mutation that helped explain a lot of the miscarriages, it also meant I was at risk and so was Isaac.  So I got a lot of doctor appointments. A lot! And I got a lot of ultrasounds, a lot!  Which was beautiful and expensive.  And, oh, there it was- the fear.  I would sit and fidget and be me in the doctor office.  I would talk too much, think too much and I would pace laps in my forest as I pretended to read my 'Reader's Digest'.  My thoughts circling in my head like vultures biding their time with prey, ‘I’m going to go up there’, I’d look up the stair case, ‘and he will be dead. I will be carrying a dead baby.’  These were my thoughts. 

But he never was. He was gorgeous and healthy and growing and busy!  And he hurt me a lot! I was un-com-fort-able!  I also lost my appetite. Which was kind of wonderful, I lost twenty pounds in my pregnancy.  Being overweight, that was good news.  My doctor had no problem with this as long as I was healthy and the baby was thriving- which he was!  And, dare I say it- by my 20^th or so week.  I started to trust, I started to let go, I started to smile and enjoy that I was pregnant and having a little boy. 

Nine weeks later, I was just so casually and calmly talking to Zach’s speech therapist out in the lobby.  It was one of the few times Marc’s schedule allowed him to come.  Again, looking back, how God provides us with what we need when we need it!  And, well...hmm, I looked at my husband and he looked at me and I gave a look that clearly said, “We gotta go now!”

Out in the car, I explained,”Um, I think I peed myself, but I didn’t. Huh.”  Marc looked worried and confused, so off we went home.  I stood up and oh-no! I was soaked.  I wanted to cry, the fear! The baby is dead, he’s dead. Why am I soaked!?  I didn’t know what it meant or was or what I suppose to do!  I called my doctor, who said little but urged me to rush in as fast as I could get there.  We did! Poor Zach, he was flown off as fast as possible with kisses to daycare and we zoomed.  I was scared and called a friend who went through something similar.  She reassured me it was okay, probably my water broke and the possibility the baby was coming early. 

I wasn't ready, no! He wasn't ready! 29 weeks and there it was, that hated awful thought…he’s dead! I had to urge myself, silently and aggressively “Trust, Jen! Trust! Trust! Pray, pray and pray and pray and pray!”  And I did! I could feel God just tighten around me as panic seized me. Over my fear, I heard Him, over and over “You are okay, the baby is okay.” The doctor reassured me yes, the baby was fine, but my water did break and I was losing fluid.  I’d have to stay in the hospital to be monitored, to stabilize and to give Isaac some much need time.  He was still just so small.

I was scared that first night; so very scared. And I cried a lot, as I just soaked through everything all night long.  I didn’t dare to move, to get up or even to turn over. I just laid there- alone and sad and scared. And that dreaded thought…..oh it was always there haunting me. But I prayed over it. I ignored it and tried very hard to give it no power.  Isaac would be fine. I was told this OVER and OVER again.  By doctors, by nurses, by friends and family, by my husband, who worried over me. I was told by God, over and over “your son is fine.”

So I relaxed and I stabilized. I received medication, steroids and care.  Isaac thrived in that short little stay, and my fluid became stable again. I laid in the hospital bed for hours, then days then weeks! 2 weeks- I didn’t do much but online shop, come up with “to do” list for poor Marc, work on devotionals and journal and okay, I even caught up on some ‘Pawn Stars’.  I even dared to be bored.

But all dull things come to an end, as much as I became a little stir crazy, I wasn't in a rush to have Isaac come so soon; however, he other plans.  When my water broke Hurricane Isaac (no really!) hit land the very same day.  At 31 weeks, I started to feel pain and if memory serves me the weather was menacing once again.  I hadn't realized the weather would be a prelude to life with my temperamental little Isaac or the next year would be submerged in a daily hurricane, with the constant need to shield against the storm of thoughts and struggles, clinging at times to God’s assurances and strength.  They were monitoring me and could tell I was contracting, but nothing was showing up on the monitors.  Every time I’d contract, Isaac heart rate would plummet and I would free fall back into the thoughts of fear, “Please, God, don’t let me give birth to a dead baby.”

Looking back now, I hate to see where my thoughts went, how much they snuck in and nested inside of me.  Every scary or unknown variable was amplified by the thoughts of Isaac’s death. I try to ignore them, but they had an ugly way of always resurfacing.  My doctor was the best and very assuring.  He was always there gently reminding me, baby was fine! But he knew Isaac had to come, NOW!  I had lost fluid and now with every contraction Isaac was being squeezed and constricted.  And I was rushed in for emergency C-section, the awesome (and I can’t shout their praises enough AWESOME) NICU team was there on stand by, fully prepared for Isaac and I.  I’ll spare you any details of the surgery because frankly, I was an emotional basket case and my memories of the event are drowned in fogginess and anxiety stricken coma, where I was there, but not really there.  I remember Isaac crying. It was loud! And it blew me away; I didn’t think he’d make a sound.  Isaac not make a sound, ha! That’s like saying I don’t talk. He was alive! And wailing! Loudly!  I saw him for a brief moment I barely remember except there’s a picture to prove I met him before the NICU team and my husband whisked all 3lbs of him away and I melted away.

I don’t know how to write the next bit. I don’t know how to talk or properly explain the roller coaster ride of the NICU.  It was horrible and wonderful. It was lonely and supportive. It was quiet. It was alone time and lonely time. It was watching my baby, barely touching him. It was caring for him in 3 hour intervals for 15 minutes and watching nurses know what to do with my child more then I did.  It was tears and prayer and tubes and machines and machines and machines and machines. It was alarms that meant food was done; it was alarms that meant my baby was getting cold, but not really because he was snuggled tiny against my skin for just a little while. It was alarms because my baby’s heart rate just plummeted down and so did his oxygen and blood pressure. These are normal, these are called Brady’s, and this is what happens to little babies that shouldn't be on the outside.  He lived in a plastic bubble, and I couldn't hold him.  He had his eyes shielded because he was living under a constant light because his biliruben was too high or low or I can’t remember, but it seemed to last forever.  People bought me preemie clothes. But that was useless; preemies don’t wear clothes for a while.  They can’t, literally their skin can’t handle it.  You can’t stroke your baby; I was told it would feel like raking my fingernails down my infant.

I sat alone in the NICU a lot and left crying every night because when other mothers bring their babies home, I left my alone. EVERY NIGHT, I left my child.  EVERY NIGHT for nearly 2 month I didn’t get to bring my baby home. And for almost two months, my baby laid in a hospital.  I sat in a big over stuff chair, alone. Alone with thoughts, alone watching him have Bradys and struggle to learn to feed. Alone, just waiting for my 3 hours, so I could hold my baby for a little bit. Not too long, it was too exhausting for him. Everything was exhausting- too exhausting to feed, too exhausting to bathe. Everything for Isaac was exhausting.  And I learned to hold my baby for a little awhile and not stroke him. But I learned how to apply comfortable pressure on his feet. I learned to live with alarms; Bradys, tubes and nurses became my source of strength and champions.  But I was petrified of my baby and the thoughts, this is just a little while and something will happen. I will lose him.  The nagging, horrid thoughts of losing Isaac were just uncomfortable, but normal part of my dark corner of my racing brain.

I did bring Isaac home.  Isaac was, as hard as it all was, a healthy preemie that did well.  He thrived in the NICU, it took time and patience and so many prayers, but he always progressed.  And then, they said, “You can go home.” Just like that, I took my baby home.

So talking about the NICU is hard and there are loads more I could write, but maybe another time.  The next part is even harder.

I would love to type how wonderful and blessed the next year was.  But the truth was it was the hardest year of my entire life.  For the first several months of Isaac being home, I was gripped in fear. I barely left his side in fear of his death.  After being on machines so long, and my dependency on their telling me what was happening to his little body- I just didn’t trust that it was all alright.  Isaac and I planted ourselves in the living room for the next 4 months. I barely slept on the sofa and he barely slept beside me his bouncer propped up.  He had major eating and digestive issues. He was stiff, rigid and miserable.  At six months old he could barely roll and was a very unhappy little baby.  I was a very hormonal mommy.  He was inconsolable and rarely soothed.  In the weak moments of my stormy year the terror of losing him clutched my mind.  And there were the bad nights. The nights I wish didn’t happen, but they did and they are the realness of living in a hurricane. The nights of anger and exhaustion walking away from him in his nursery in hysterics, as I’d be on my knees in the kitchen screaming and crying out to God to give my life peace, as poor Zach desperately vied for my attention, cried out for me.  And at times, I know I was not a good mother.  I’m glad to say my truly weak moments were few and far between, but when they hit me- they were not fond memories of the mother I wanted and prayed to be.  I’d scream out for silence, my voice boomed against every wall of my house.  My poor children cry out for me.  I could type this out with my tears as I share the look on Zachary’s face one time as he hid under the table, as I was yelling at the ceiling that I didn’t have it me anymore that night for anyone. But in the bad moments, there was born beautiful memories and absolute victories. 

I think of that year like a forest fire.  Fires rage and destroy large portions of land, but in that destruction is renewal and the chance of a new creation.  The fire raged that year inside of me because of the necessity to create newness in me.  God needed a way to show a strong willed, controlling, self-righteous and at time tyrannically girl that she needs to trust Him, to find His peace, His joy and freedom in Him.  He needed to catch my mind on fire to burn out all the thoughts of fear and death that had gripped me.  In every hour of desperation, I clung to him and he raged war on my mind destroying the evil grip of thoughts that I had given too much power.  The power of death and pain, the power that God was punishing me and I was simply reaping what I sowed, the thoughts that I didn’t deserve Isaac and his life was nothing but a cruelty that would be ripped from me.  In those bad moments of me on my knees, I felt God gain His ground inside of me.  The hurricane whipped through the house- raging between my weakness and flesh-driving tantrums, my infant screaming his pain, my needing, challenging non-verbal toddler would find the eye of the storm and finally stillness.  And the beauty of laughter, growth, forgiven and kisses would engulf us as I’d pick up Zach and smother him in kisses and ask him humbly, “forgive me?” And my precious, gentle-spirited boy would wrap himself tight around me, kiss me and show me the power of God’s love in his ability to always forgive me.

I wouldn't want to end with the impression that I was a depressed, hormonal lunatic mother that lived life daily with unhappiness, sorrow, anger and rage with relentless feelings of death of my son was inevitable.  That would be inaccurate and a completely wrong impression.  This is simply a tale of the struggles I went though when it was hard because that is the truth- there were very hard times and God had to help me pull out of my own hurricane I allowed swirl around for a that year and have victory in Him.  That year was also filled with the anchor of my husband willingness to be the man that took my emotional garage I’d spew out and not lash back, but simply love me back.  It was a year of watching Isaac overcome such obstacles and become an amazingly happy baby that outgrew his digestive issues and eating issues, catching up in leaps and bounds. He became smiley and my dark thoughts that had lived with so long, simply disappeared. I began to cherish Isaac and the hope of his beautiful life.  Zachary’s heart grew into this sweet soul that gave me so much joy, that I could not tell him enough in one day how much I loved him and how much he blessed me.   

I didn’t want to be a mother.  I spend so many years not wanting it, then when I wanted it. I foolishly thought it would be easy.  I thought wanting something equaled being good at it.  I wasn't born with the natural instinct to be a good mother.  But God changed that in me and through him I'm learning I can be a great mother.  He didn’t come at me with proverbial goodwill wishing imprinted on decorative pillows.  He didn’t pat me on the back and say, “Good luck.”  He didn’t say trite and passively useless kind words to make me feel better about whom I was as a person. No, God is stronger and more vested then a funny commercialized version of himself that's trying to sell me the product of God. He did the hard work in me and wage war against the evil that had planted a forest in my brain.  He didn’t do anything silly with me. He literally picked me up, threw me head first and hard into a raging hurricane my version of motherhood.  Now, when I’m on my knees in prayer to Him on my kitchen floor I don’t scream at the ceiling. Instead, I speak softly and humbly, always mindful to start with “Thank you.”

And Isaac is in his room playing choochoo and Zach is on the couch giggling at me.