Y’all are the best.  No lie.

 

You’re comments and messages today have had me over the moon excited as to what the Lord’s going to do with all of this scary, messy stuff and He is affirming so very much of it through YOU.

 

Thank you a bazillion times, thank you.

 

as we continue with more of the story, I sincerely ask you to pray should you know of someone that could be encouraged by this hard, sad story, please share it with them or connect us somehow..I’d love to encourage them, cheer them on with the truth that often our worst seasons often become our most cherished……

 

***********************

 

The love for our growing baby shown to us while in the hospital was overwhelming.

 

 

We had so many bouquets delivered to us during our stay that I began sending them home with our visitors.

 

Kids and parents from my class and former classes, church members, close friends and many of our family filled our moments with as much joy as possible.

 

The medicine the nurses were giving me had me in a fuzzy-state-of-mind (which is the nice way of saying I was a lunatic).

 

 

I don’t remember a lot, but what I could recall was enough to let me know that I should always, “SAY NO TO DRUGS.”

 

My sister Lily had done her best to help lighten the mood (because she’s awesome like that) by taking notes and sharing the countless illicit and uncensored comments that I had presumably made while under the influence of the medications (my MIL (mother-in-law) is still sorting through the comments and questions directed towards her a decade later).

(We totally probably should have considered counseling.)

 

Three days of mimicking a forward slash had slowed but not completely stopped my labor from progressing.

 

Doc had exhausted all of his resources and decided to make a call to a fellow physician who worked at a much larger, more advance hospital an hour north of our small town.

 

He informed us that his friend was willing to accept me as a patient and assured us the he was indeed  the best of the best.

 

“Your baby is small but he has a fighting chance there.”

 

There was no need to ask him what he thought we should do. His expression and suggested tone said it all.

 

The choice was ours.

 

With little discussion we consented to go.

 

To travel via helicopter was not an option because the pressure change could have caused my water to break. We were told we would go by way of ambulance.  I had never ridden in an ambulance before and to be quite frank, I didn’t want to ride in one that day.

 

My lifelong, childhood friend is an OB nurse (thank you Jesus for being a God of such detail). She worked at our local hospital for several years before transferring to another. Some of my people got word to her that we would be leaving within the hour and just like that, she was there.

 

As they transferred me from my titled bed to the gurney, I distinctly remember feeling numb.

 

Not physically numb, although I wished I had been.

 

The kicking was a constant reminder that something was wrong, very wrong with all of this.

 

I counted the lights on the ceiling as they rolled me from our room through the halls from one door into another until finally we were outside.

 

I’d not been outside in days.

 

The fresh air was wonderful. I desperately wanted to take it all in and inhale or cry, but instead I closed my eyes and began to hold my breath.