I grew up in the church. It has just always been a part of my life. I don’t remember a time I didn’t believe in God, pray, know that Jesus died for me. My faith is a part of me. I developed a more personal relationship with God as I grew into my teens and college years. Life was not perfect…my Daddy had heart issues, my parents went through a divorce, our family suffered through severe financial struggles. But it was not until Big Man was born that I ever found myself falling to my knees.
When I was admitted to the hospital, just over halfway through my pregnancy, prayers went up at our church, throughout our family and spread through friends. Once Big Man was born, the network expanded literally around the world. I didn’t realize the extent at the time. We were so caught up in the world of prematurity and the NICU. When you find yourself with your child in the NICU, you enter a new place, a new normal. I prayed continually, but not many of those prayers were very complete. They often came in brief sentences, or parts of sentences. My thoughts were so scattered, the emotions so intense I could not formulate complete thoughts. Sometimes, oftentimes, I was reduced to just saying, “Please, God.”
When Big Man was about three weeks old, I came home from visiting him with a feeling that something just wasn’t right with him. He didn’t look right. He wasn’t acting the way he normally did. He had more episodes than usual of apnea/bradychardia. He was fussy. He was too sensitive for me to hold him that day. I tried twice and he dropped his heart rate and stopped breathing both times. So the entire time I was with him that day, I stared at him through the walls of his isolette. When I got home that night, I went into his bedroom. I rarely went in there while he was in the NICU. It was just too hard to see a room all ready for a baby who would not be home for months. It was too difficult to think I should still be pregnant with him. Seeing his empty room brought home the fact I was a daily visitor to my tiny infant in a NICU world full of lights, beeps, alarms, IV lines, sickness and even death, rather than being a complete family under one roof. But that night, I went into his room and stood before his crib. And I hit my knees. I found the words to bargain with God for my son’s life. I cried for all we had lost. I sobbed in fear. And after a long while, I felt some small peace steal over me, like warm, comforting arms wrapping around me. I was not completely at ease, but I had someone stronger than myself to lean on.
We went back to the NICU at 10:30 that night because I was still unable to rest. Turned out Big Man had his own staph infection. It was agonizing news to receive, just when we had begun to think we were out of the woods as far as the scariest time in the NICU with a micro-preemie. Three days later, just before he was scheduled to have a spinal tap, he turned a corner. Within seven days, he’d beaten the infection.
I will never, ever forget that night. I will always remember with such clarity that moment of complete surrender. I can’t say that I never tried to negotiate with God for my son’s life again, but I knew he was not in my hands. I’ve not hit my knees that way since then, but I know I can.