My Sweet Mila

My sweet Mila girl, this day last year was the scariest day of my life.

Our first two days with you were sheer bliss.  After a stressful third trimester filled with MFM appointments, it was such a relief to see your beautiful face and a healthy newborn report.  I have such fond memories of our hospital room (weird, I know) — it was filled with Amos Lee and essential oils.  And most importantly, you.  Despite my C-section, I was up and moving quickly and we were preparing to take you home to start our new life together.  Everything was going so perfectly.

Until the pediatrician told us she’d like to keep you in the nursery overnight to monitor you.  Even at that time, we had no idea how the next few days would unfold.  The next morning, we began gathering our things for discharge and went to check in with the nursery to make sure we were still on track to be released that day.  We were told that an x-ray was required to further assess the issue.  We anxiously waited.  Upon receiving the results, the pediatrician came to our room — without you.  Instead, we were informed that you had been transferred to their NICU while waiting for the emergency transport team to take you to Children’s Medical Center in Dallas.  Upon receiving this news, my body became weak and I couldn’t stop shaking.  I vividly remember our OBGYN coming in to check on my progress following the c-section, and I just broke down in her arms.  

Our hearts sank.  No one had narrowed down what was happening yet, but they knew something wasn’t right.  And it was potentially very serious.

Although they recommended that I stay an extra day to recover from surgery, I requested to be released immediately so we could follow the ambulance to Children’s.  As we nervously shoveled everything into our bags, we grabbed the “new baby girl” balloon my dad had placed on the outside of our hospital room.  I’ll never forget that balloon.  In the weeks to come, it was attached to your empty crib at home.  It was a constant reminder that you weren’t there.  Given your extended hospital stay, it went from full of life (and helium) to completely deflated.

Your dad and I raced to the new hospital, nearly silent and in shock.  (Unsuccessfully) fighting back the tears.  

It was Labor Day weekend, so the medical staff was limited.  Over the next 24 hours, you had countless tests performed to zero in on what exactly was happening.  As the lab and test results came pouring in, we had some of the toughest conversations I’ve ever had.  Your surgeon asked us to join him in the nurse’s station as he drew a picture to help us visualize what their leading diagnosis was at the time.  He intricately described what life would look like for you and I felt so helpless.  How could this precious baby girl who seemed so outwardly perfect have such a devastating disease?

That evening we received the first bit of “good” news — although good seemed like a pretty relative term.  The radiologist had confirmed that it was NOT what they were originally thinking and their new leading diagnosis was a gastrointestinal atresia.  Although still very serious and life-threatening, it’s something that’s typically fully repaired after surgery.  You were scheduled for surgery the next morning.  Amidst all of the tubes and wires, we held you so tight that evening.

4 days old.  5.5 pounds.  I had an out-of-body experience as the sea of people prepared you for the operating room that morning.  If I’m being honest, I think I was mentally preparing for the worst.  I remember Kaley calling to check in and I physically couldn’t talk.  

We joined my parents for breakfast in the hospital cafeteria and it was the longest meal of our lives.  Luckily, Ryan was able to get text updates throughout the surgery from his coworkers who were administering your anesthetic.  Finally, we got the news we had so anxiously been waiting for since your arrival — the surgery went smoothly and they were able to surgically repair the problem.  

Thank God for modern medicine and the saints who work in the medical field.  If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t still be with us.  You arrived with a condition that was incompatible with life and 1.5 hours in an operating room completely reversed that.  Let that sink in.

From this point, you remained in the NICU for two weeks to recover.  You blew through all of your recovery milestones and stole the NICU team’s hearts.  I will never forget all of the nurses and doctors who literally saved your life.

Today, we went for a walk with Bubs and had a front yard picnic in the fall(…ish) weather.  I thank God every day for making these precious moments possible.

Love you more than words, baby girl.

PS, thanks for making your first birthday slightly less dramatic!