apostrophic

I orig­i­nally planned to make this post on Riley’s 6th birth­day, which was on August 01. But things have been kinda crazy hec­tic this week, from her birth­day party to Jere­miah leav­ing for Nebraska. So I’m mak­ing it today instead.

My preg­nancy was full of com­pli­ca­tions. From a blood clot to my white blood cell count being almost triple the nor­mal, it was just about every­thing. At one point, my doc­tor even asked if there was a pos­si­bil­ity that I would con­sider ter­mi­nat­ing the preg­nancy because one test came back 90% pos­i­tive to a major birth defect. Riley wasn’t planned at all. I wasn’t even sure that I was pre­pared to be a mother. But from that 1st pos­i­tive test, there was never any doubt in my mind. No mat­ter what, I loved the lit­tle one grow­ing inside me, and even with the com­pli­ca­tions, not hav­ing her was never an option for me.

Near the last month of my preg­nancy. Things finally set­tled down and it seemed that every­thing was going to be okay. My due date was August 1st, but at my last appoint­ment, the doc­tor said that because my uterus was tilted he didn’t think it was going to be pos­si­ble for me to go into labor & deliver on my own. At this point, Riley’s esti­mated weight was 8 1/2 lbs. So, the doc­tor sched­uled my induc­tion for August 3rd. Well, late at night on July 31st, things started get­ting strange. I felt this pres­sure in my stom­ach and noth­ing would relieve it. Not only that, but Ri wasn’t mov­ing. I didn’t imme­di­ately go to the hos­pi­tal because it felt noth­ing like every­one had described labor to feel like. Grant was at work at Sonic and when he was sup­posed to get off at mid­night, I called and told him to come straight home because some­thing wasn’t right. Once he got home, we went to my par­ents house and they drove us to the hos­pi­tal. Grant was call­ing all of the fam­ily on the way because we thought every­thing was going right and that I was going into labor.

We got to the hos­pi­tal and at first, every­thing was fine. The nurse got us all sit­u­ated and told us that I wasn’t quite into labor yet, but since I was already there that when my doc­tor came in the next morn­ing, they would go ahead and induce labor. Sooo, Grant recalled every­one and told them not to come up to the hos­pi­tal just yet, that he would call every­one in the morn­ing when it was time. After that, every­one just kind of got set­tled in for the night. About two hours later, one of the nurses came fly­ing into the room and started check­ing my vitals and all of that busi­ness. We could tell she was fran­tic, but refused to give us a rea­son why. Right after she left, my water broke. Only, it was like nor­mal. The best way to describe it was a thick, black, tar-like sub­stance. (Sorry if TMI) A minute or so later, the doc­tor on call came in and said that Ri’s vitals were drop­ping and that they were rush­ing me into an emer­gency c-section. From that point on, every­thing was a blur. Within the hour, the c-section was done and I was back in the room. But with­out Riley. It was around 8:30 in the morn­ing by this time. All of us kept ask­ing when we would get to see Ri and all of the nurses and doc­tors kept evad­ing our ques­tions. Finally, one doc­tor said that she was fine, but that they had her on a vent because she was hav­ing a hard time breath­ing and that we would get to see her shortly. Finally, around 5:00, the doc­tor came in. We were finally going to be told what was going on. But none of us were pre­pared for what was com­ing next. Riley was born with a severe case of meco­nium aspi­ra­tion. The doc­tor was a 30 year vet­eran to L&D, and he said it was the worst case he had ever seen. Her lungs were over 90% full of the meco­nium and the spe­cial­ist were only giv­ing her a 1% chance of sur­vival. They were prepar­ing her to medi-flight her to the near­est Children’s Hos­pi­tal in OKC, nearly two hours away. Then more bad news. I had a severe infec­tion in my own body from the meco­nium and they wanted to keep me at the hos­pi­tal here for another week or two, my whole body was toxic and at risk for sep­ticemia. I didn’t care, I refused to stay and told them that I would be check­ing out the next morn­ing so that I could go to OKC with Riley. At first, they refused. Then they real­ized that I was going to do it with or with out their approval. So, they set me up with a doc­tor at the same hos­pi­tal that Ri was at and loaded me up with meds.

The next month was one of the hard­est in my life. It was a daily bat­tle for her sur­vival. One day would be good, the next, a los­ing bat­tle.  But she made it. God blessed us, and Riley was a fighter. We were finally able to bring her home on August 18.

Since then, we have had many bat­tles with her health. She has numer­ous AVMs in her right arm, but we are deal­ing with that as they come. Other than that, she is healthy and a bright, ener­getic lit­tle girl. She never stops, and her imag­i­na­tion is limitless.

No one knows what the future holds. But I do know, from past expe­ri­ence, that there isn’t any­thing that we can’t over come. We had a rocky start, and we’ve had some pretty big bumps in the road along the way, but we are fight­ers. Not only that, but I firmly believe God has his hand on us. There is no way we could have made it through the tri­als that we have if He didn’t.

Riley, you are my heart, my strength, my every­thing. I was scared when I found out and I wor­ried that I wasn’t ready. But I know now that I was/am, and I am truly blessed to have you. You make every sin­gle bad day worth it and your smile makes every­thing amaz­ing. You are con­stantly full of ques­tions and won­der­ment for the world around you. You are a bless­ing to every­one that knows you. You are proof that we can over­come any­thing that comes our way, and that God will never give us more than we can han­dle. It only makes us stronger. You have went from being so small and seem­ingly help­less to one of the bravest peo­ple I know. You aren’t afraid of any­thing. Most of the things you go through on a nor­mal basis, from doc­tors to surg­eries, you don’t even flinch. Most kids would crum­ble at the thought of some of the things you have over­come. I can’t wait to watch you grow even more and develop even more into the won­der­ful per­son that you are already becom­ing. Words can’t express how much I love you, baby. I can’t believe that it has been six years. Those night­mares live fresh in my mind even today. But all I have to do is look at your face and I know that there is noth­ing that I wouldn’t do for you. I love you, baby. Happy birthday!

 

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