Part 1/3 of Preston's Birth Story

Preston’s birthday is Friday, July 13th, and I got to thinking how inspirational it was to read about my friends’ recent birth experience. But of course, back in the day, 15 years ago, we didn’t have FB. So I thought I’d share Preston’s birth story: 1 because having another baby was a terrifying decision, after a previous birth trauma; and 2 because having him brought incredible healing for our family and our then, church family. To put this in perspective, I am going to write this in 3 parts – the backstory, Preston’s birth story (not the gory stuff,) and, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest…of the story.
Part 1 (Or page 253 in my autobiography – if I get around to writing one)
As an idealistic newlywed, I had a few of the first years of my married life planned out, and after that I didn’t care. Paramount was the four children I dreamed of having, complete with the order of gender and full names of each child. I would have a boy, then a girl, because that’s the all-American order, I thought. Then I’d have another girl, followed by a little boy. That would result in two girls and two boys. Perfect!
Right on cue, I became pregnant, and I knew it was a boy. Birth day arrived, and in 5 hours, out came the most gorgeous little girl – my darling Hannah, now 26 years old. 17 months later (surprise!) and 3 hours of labor, I gave birth to a charming little fellow, whom we named Lucas, now 25 years old. See? Where does the time go? I tell you, young moms, embrace those sleepless nights, the three year old temper tantrums, the young “crushes,” and the tearful departures to college. One day, soon, they leave the nest to make memories of their own – like you did.
After Lucas was born, I was tired and decided to take a break from birthing. But, without warning came that ach to have another baby. No baby. A couple years went by, then five, then 9. Finally, a got Scott wrapped around my finger enough to consent to another baby. I prayed it would be a girl. After having the most adorable daughter, I wanted another one. I prayed every day and night that I’d have a girl.
Birth day came, and as I promised to spare you from the gore, suffice it to say it was filled with great trauma, terror and heartache. God had, indeed, granted my petition for a little girl, and we named her Elizabeth.  Elizabeth was born with Chiari III, a severe birth defect that included Occipital Cervical Encephalocele (you can look that up if you have the stomach,) bell-shaped lungs, and holes between the ventricles of her heart. She was blind, deaf, completely mute and utterly catatonic. After a week in NICU, being kept alive by machines, tested by numerous doctors, surgeons and geneticists, the news was that she most certainly would not live when disconnected from life support. Came the dreadful day to make that hard decision and say goodbye. The doctor turned off the machines and…she continued to breathe on her own, to the amazement of the healthcare professionals. Now what? We did what every parent does with their newborn – took her home, loved her, and set out to make every possible memory with her, knowing the inevitable would come. Another week went by, then another, everyday met with bated breath. Two months of cootchie-cooing a baby who had no response, gavage-feeding her, watching her turn blue and wondering if she’d take another breath, and loving her with every fiber of our being.
Hang in there, dear reader. Just a little more of this sad story and then begins the healing.
My idea of camping is barefoot in a 4-star hotel. But to make memories for the family, we did what our pocketbook could afford and went camping. It was a blissful little one-family island we canoed to, and set up to have a couple of fun days away from planning for a visit from the coroner and a memorial service, all in near future. I awoke the next morning and notice that Elizabeth was running a high fever. Instinctively, I felt this might be “it.” I tried to act casual as I wrapped her in a blankie and snuggled her into my jacket. She and I walked to the other end of the island, merely 3 minutes away. As I stood there, kissing her face, she opened her eyes for the first time in her entire 2 months of life. I was amazed to see they were a deep violet color, nearly purple. She looked up with the clarity of one who could actually see, took a big breath, and with a look of pure joy and awe on her face she uttered her first sound, something like, “Ahhhhhh!” That was the moment she left her broken body behind, and her soul entered heaven. I saw the moment she saw Jesus. It was beautiful, and terrifying. The rest of that day is as clear as a bell to me, but much more grief than I want you to endure, so I’ll spare you from opening that other box of tissues.
At Elizabeth’s memorial service, our dear friends sang the old hymn, “Does Jesus care?” Oh yes, He cares! In the days, weeks and months to follow, and even these 16 years passed, we have known how very much God loves and cares for us. Through the people of God in our church and church network in MN and all over the country, God’s comfort poured in to meet the needs of Scott, Hannah, Lucas and myself, as we muddled through the confusion of grief and praise.
We grilled the geneticist about the possibility of such a strange and horrible birth defect occurring again. He assured that the chances were vastly remote. Still, the dread of “tempting fate” fell heavy on us. After praying for wisdom, we decided to trust God with our hearts …and the chance of having a healthy baby. After what felt like eternity, I found I was pregnant. I, we, had nine months of joy mixed with fear, excitement mixed with crippling trepidation, and a certain measure of guilt that we were going on with our lives…without Elizabeth. And then the anticipated birth day finally came, the day our sorrow turned to joy, beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for the spirit of heaviness. It wasn’t without some incredibly hard and harrowing moments… but that’s in Part 2, to be posted on Friday, July 13.