I am overwhelmed at the awesome stories coming in from all over the country. Please keep them coming, my vision is to create an inspirational journal with your story, excerpts from The Treasure, and artwork from hurt people who have found help in Christ. The proceeds will go to serve healing people in recovery.

This is a cool story by an author friend of mine, Julie, parents perhaps you can connect?

Born Too Soon
© Julie Bonn Heath

I was 28 weeks pregnant and 23 years old when my husband mentioned that my face was swelling. I rolled my eyes at him and walked over to glance in the mirror. Unfortunately, his observation was correct.
I must be retaining water.
I had just finished reading a book last week for expectant parents which included a chapter on pre-eclampsia (pregnancy induced high blood pressure), and my heart had twisted as I wondered if it could happen to me.
I brushed off the thought, chalking it up to raging, third-trimester hormones.
But now as I stared in the mirror, I fought a small well of panic that opened—just a little—inside of my heart. I swallowed hard and ducked out of my husband’s sight, avoiding his gaze.
“If it gets worse, I’ll go in.”
The next morning, with my face large and puffy, I drove myself to the clinic and calmly presented myself at the front desk. My logical mind knew that I was just fine—but I wasn’t willing to risk the well being of my baby by being stubborn.
“I’m showing signs of pre-eclampsia,” I whispered.
The receptionist whipped out a yellow piece of paper. “Is the baby moving?”
I nodded.
She handed the paper to me and then walked me back to the back area of the clinic. Her voice sounded strained and rushed as she whispered to a nurse who threw a plastic smile at me and directed me into an exam room.
This is just to make sure everything’s OK, I reassured myself. I will not panic.
Unfortunately, the test results were positive.
“You do have pre-eclampsia.” The nurse affirmed, “We need to check you in at the hospital.”
That quickly, a diagnosis changed our lives forever.
It can’t possibly be right.
“Where’s the doctor?” I asked.
“She asked me tell you.”
“I want to speak to her,” I replied. “I’ll wait.”
The Doctor entered the room and patted me on the shoulder.
“What’s this mean?” I asked. I wanted all the answers—and fast.
“We’ll get you into the hospital,” she replied kindly but firmly. “They may be able to get it under control there.”
With my heart in my throat, I called my husband. He met me at the hospital. The OB doctor on duty checked me over and sat down.
“This hospital isn’t set up for preemies. We’ll transport you to another—the best in the State.”
“I was hoping that you’d tell me that this diagnosis is a mistake,” I countered. “I don’t feel sick.”
The doctor shook his head. No. “The cure is delivery,” he announced quietly. “Although at this point we need to keep your baby in there as long as we can.”
I shuddered. My husband grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. We held hands, and waited for the unknown.
For the only time in history that I remembered, a major bridge was closed due to ice. The back roads took an hour longer, and stressed, my body started having contractions while I was in the ambulance. I joked with the medics and asked if they had ever delivered before, but I was terrified.
“Of course! You’re going to be just fine!” He said, but he radioed his partner in the front seat to tell him that contractions were starting.
I bet you’ve never delivered one at 29 weeks.
The contractions lightened at the hospital with medication. The second day we were there, an NICU nurse took my husband on a tour of the nursery and showed him a spot reserved for our baby. By then we knew that it was a girl, about 2 pounds, and whether she survived or not, we would still name her what my husband had always requested: Megan. The nurse gave us a book on preemies and he came from the nursery, looking very grave, and a bit pale.
“They have a SPOT for her?” I cried. “What happened to keeping her inside as long as we can?” I turned to the wall and started crying while he tried in vain to comfort me. Only that morning, I had a roommate tell me, “Pre-eclampsia? That’s what I have. I get it with every pregnancy and they send me home on bedrest.”
At the time, hope sang in my heart although my body finally did feel very sick and my vision had doubled. I had to ask my supportive parents to back away from my bedside that day because there were four of them and it was overwhelming.
Four days after my admittance, I knew that it was Thursday, and also Thanksgiving Day. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Happy Thanksgiving, little one.
During the night, my baby’s heart rate had dropped several times and I told the doctor making rounds. In addition, my headache grew excruciating painful over the matter of an hour.
“It hurts so badly that I can hardly talk. My teeth feel like they are pressing forward.” My graphic description caused a quickened pace in my room and outside in the hall.
Two other doctors entered and asked me questions. After examining me, they looked at each other with concern in their eyes.
Oh no. What does this mean?
Shortly after they left, the main doctor overseeing my care returned. “It’s time to take the little one out,” he said gently. “At this point, you and she are both better off with her in the nursery.”
“Now?”
He nodded and instructed the nurse to prep me for surgery. She left quickly.
My husband entered the room.
“They’re going to do a c-section,” I told him—relieved that he was finally there.
“Now?” His shocked voice was higher pitched than usual.
“Yes.” the doctor affirmed.
The nurse returned and administered more shots.
My heart raced and tears of worry filled my eyes. Will my baby survive? Can she survive?
My husband called my parents who pulled their turkey from the oven and made him a turkey sandwich. They rushed to the hospital—but I was already in surgery by the time they arrived.
An entire team of people stood nearby, just for the baby. Specialists; neonatal nurses and pediatricians—their presence should have provided comfort but did not.
This is serious. My baby is arriving eleven weeks early. These professionals are needed—perhaps to save her life.
They rolled me over and I felt the shot in my spine—felt the numbing stretch slowly down to my knees.
Why can’t you just put me out? Less traumatic—but wait, then I couldn’t see her and I need to see her right away.
The anesthesia caused violent shaking of my entire body. They arranged my arms straight out on both sides and tied them down. I felt like I was being crucified.
“Is that necessary?” My husband asked—reading my mind.
A nurse assured him that it was. He held my hand—clear at the end of the strapping board and managed to touch my face with his free hand.
“It’s OK. She’s going to be OK.”
“W-We don’t know that,” I managed through chattering teeth, tears running down my face.
“Yes.” He squeezed my hand. “We do.”
I nodded. I’m so scared for our little girl.
The Anesthesiologist sat near my head and held my other hand. “The shaking is normal, Julie. It’s OK. I’ll be here the whole time watching out for you.”
“S-Sure,” I managed lightly. “I saw that paperback novel you brought in here with you.”
The entire medical team laughed. “She’s on to you, Frank,” one of them said.
“Can you feel this?” One doctor asked as a stab of pain hit me in the stomach.
“O-Ouch.” I clenched my teeth. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry. You’re not completely numb yet.”
A couple of moments ticked by. I looked around, managed a wobbly smile at a nurse and took deep breaths. My entire body rattled the table as I trembled.
Soon the surgery was at the forefront of everyone’s mind—at least I hoped so—and my husband stood aghast at seeing inside parts of me lifted up and away to get to the baby.
The clock ticked more. Silence filled the room as the medical team concentrated.
“W-what’s going on?” I asked. They reassured me that everything was fine. The wait seemed like hours.
As soon as they lifted our daughter from me, I saw normally for the first time in days. And just as quickly, I heard her wail.
She’s breathing. She’s breathing.
A doctor lifted her quickly in the air for me to see and then several gathered around to whisk her away on a table—literally running to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
My husband kissed me. “I need to make sure she’s OK,” he whispered and I nodded as he quickly headed to the nursery behind her. I felt strangely abandoned and yet at the same time, wanted him near our baby.
For the first time, she was away from me and I felt a hole in my heart. Now that she was gone—I no longer had as much control. Who was I kidding? I never held the control in the first place. But I could no longer say, “her heartbeat is dropping” or ask, “can you make sure she’s OK?” Her life now rested in the hands of skilled doctors—and God. All I could do—was hope and pray.
Happy birthday and Thanksgiving, Megan. Please live. Please live. Please live.
After twenty four hours of breathing on her own, she was ventilated. She was born with a hole in her heart that medication closed and a variety of other preemie issues. The first time we held her, she turned her head to find us when we talked to her. Needless to say, while rocking her gently in my arms, I felt complete for the first time since leaving the hospital without her.
It was forty-one days before we joyfully brought Megan home. Born at two pounds, seven ounces, she finally weighed three pounds, four ounces and could breathe and eat on her own. Although her follow up care was extensive and financial issues loomed large, she is now a healthy and happy teen.
We will never forget the experience of having a baby on the edge of life, and will never cease to be grateful for the knowledgeable team of doctors and nurses who saw her through. And to God, Who has blessed us with her throughout.