Thirty years ago, I became a mom to an extremely premature baby, four months sooner than planned. I clung to my hopes in spite of the risks and dangers. A nurse from our church, who I didn’t even know worked in the NICU, came to visit me in the hospital, looked forlorn, and told me, “All the odds are against him.” I exploded, telling her I needed to be hopeful. (The opioids took away my filter!) I asked my nurse to make a sign and post it on my door: “Think positive thoughts.” Throughout our time in the NICU, and afterward, I gravitated to people who believed in Chris’ chances for survival.

The day before, I became a mom, not in the exciting, exhausting, physically painful, push-out-a-soccer-ball way most women become moms. Not in the relieved, exalted way a baby is placed in their mom’s arms to be snuggled and nursed and loved on as much as possible. Not in the way a baby is surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and sometimes siblings, joyfully welcoming them into the world.

My first day as a mom started after a night full of extremely painful cramps, which I thought were constipation. I was barely 24 weeks along. No amount of prunes made the pain go away. That week I was supposed to go to Seattle for a business meeting. I had been in my new, huge management role for just five months, bringing together five separate publications departments in four states. I let them know I wasn’t going to make it. I never expected what lay ahead.

The pregnancy had been full of heavy bleeding and ultrasounds to make sure everything was okay. I really liked my OB, Dr. Weaver, but for some reason she completely failed to prepare me for the possibility of premature birth. Mike went off for a jog, and I took a shower, realizing something was not right. That’s when I felt the umbilical cord coming out of me (what’s known as a prolapsed cord, which can be fatal in itself). When I called her office, they told me to get myself to Providence Portland Hospital to be checked out.

The only problem? Mike was not at home. So I got myself into the car and drove to the track where he ran to ask him to drive us to the hospital. I remember arriving at Providence and wandering a bit before we found the maternity unit. (Later, the NICU nurses were dismayed that I had driven at all during this period!! I should have been in an ambulance. That came later.)

A nurse checked me in and came to examine me. I told her about feeling the cord, and she pooh-poohed me, telling me that had definitely not happened. When Dr. Weaver appeared a few minutes later to take a look, she motioned for the nurse to come over and see. The nurse gasped. (You’re not supposed to gasp in health care. Basics.) Dr. Weaver then told us she was so sorry; there was nothing that could be done. We burst into tears. Then she said she’d be right back. She had called a perinatologist (who deal with premature birth all the time).

When she returned a few minutes later, she gave us some hope. We could attempt to deliver the baby, but she wasn’t sure if it would be successful. Our choice was: give birth naturally, and the baby would die, or have a radical c-section, and all of my future births would have to be c-sections. The surgical option would give the baby a 50% chance of surviving. Without even consulting Mike, I said, “I’ll take the c-section.”

Immediately they went into action, arranging for me to be taken by ambulance to Legacy Emanuel, where they had a Level 3 NICU. Mike had to follow along by car in his sweaty running clothes. I don’t remember much about the ambulance ride or what happened after that. I was put under for the surgery. The next thing I remember is Mike being at my side when I woke up, informing us that we had a son. He was alive, but weighed only 1 lb, 6 ounces and measured 11 inches long. But he was alive!!

When I think back to that choice we were offered, I realize how little we knew about what we were in for. No one told us beforehand. Later that day we learned that he still had only a 50% chance of surviving. Those survival odds were not going anywhere. And if he did survive, he had a 50% chance of major disabilities. We had no idea we were committing to a four-month, grueling, terrifying stay in the NICU. We knew so little. I’m guessing they do a better job nowadays of informing new parents about what’s ahead.

And so we set out on this NICU roller coaster, a totally new world, where Christopher was positioned on an open bed platform, lathered in Aquaphor and covered in plastic wrap, hooked up to a high-frequency ventilator that made his tiny body shake like a fluttering leaf, and jabbed with multiple wires and cords, sometimes in his head! He moved into a covered isolette when he got stronger, but the open bed allowed the staff easy access while he was so tiny and sick. He had one dedicated nurse for several weeks.

As soon as I could make it happen, they rolled me in on a stretcher to meet my firstborn child. Later Dr. Weaver told me she thought he looked like a fetus. I guess she would know. Later we showed our friends some video, and they seemed upset to see our tiny baby on their TV screen. But to me, he was tiny and beautiful. Perfect. But extremely sick.

When most women give birth prematurely, they’ve been on bedrest and receive steroids that mature the baby’s lungs. Christopher did not get these steroids, but fortunately he received surfactant, which helps premature babies breathe more easily. Still, he had to stay on the high-frequency vent for quite a while.

Many people didn’t know how to react to Chris’ early arrival. Our house exploded with bouquets of flowers. One of Mike’s friends gave Chris a musical elephant toy, a small vote of confidence that he’d be able to leave the NICU one day.

Our 117 days in the NICU were the most intense roller coaster of my life. I think some of the time I was in la-la land, not regularly aware of just how sick he was. He was struggling to breathe and grow much of those 117 days. But three specific days stand out:

–His first of four surgeries. I was scared because he was still under 2 lb, but a nurse took me aside and asked me what I was most scared of. When I told her I was afraid he might die, she said she’d never seen a baby die from this surgery. It wasn’t a guarantee, but it reassured me.

–Care conference to discuss quality of life. After he graduated to a low-frequency ventilator and was doing much better, he experienced a huge crisis: cerebral edema and low flow to the brain. The neonatologist told us he was unlikely to recover. But Chris surprised us again: the next day his head ultrasound was normal! In a few days he graduated from his ventilator.

–Bad infection. On another crisis day, he caught a dangerous infection, and we were called into the NICU early in the morning to see no fewer than eight staff hovering over his bed. But Chris rebounded again, and not long after, moved into the Level 2 unit, one step closer to going home.

Fast forward to a few days before Christmas 1996, when we got to take Chris home! He arrived hooked up to an apnea monitor and oxygen, on complicated medications we had to administer, and connected to a laptop computer. He was a high-tech baby! I’ll never be able to explain the intense relief, combined with a bit of nervousness, of bringing him home. The nervousness was due to not having professionally trained nursing staff at our sides!

But at the same time, it felt so freeing, finally. We weren’t able to hold Chris until he was about 4 weeks old. Then it was just one of us per day. We had to ask permission to do most caretaking tasks. The first time he rooted to nurse (when I was doing kangaroo care), the neonatologist on duty (not my favorite!) wrote a stern note in Christopher’s chart, directing that he not be allowed to nurse again. I knew it was for a good reason (he wanted Chris to conserve his energy to grow), but it hurt.

We grew seriously close to many of the nursing staff (some of whom we are still in touch with), but other nurses drove me crazy. One nurse gave Chris his first bath, even though she knew we were coming in a few hours later. Another implied he was going to be addicted to morphine. That was balanced out by nurses who requested they be assigned to Chris: one who knitted him some booties, another who dressed him up in his first clothes in the middle of the night, another who threatened to “deck the cardiologist” when he wasn’t very nice, and so many more daily kindnesses.

We sang to Chris every day from birth and became known as “the singing Gettels” (in the NICU they use the mom’s name, and we hadn’t hyphenated back then). I firmly believe he became the huge music lover he is now because of this daily music. That’s how he experienced our love, since we couldn’t hold him for so long. As a child he memorized all of our CDs, and he’s been to more concerts in his three decades than anyone I know. He loves Broadway musicals too.

Going home did not mean easy sailing. Although we were thrilled to have him home, we were worried he would get sick. An older preemie (34 weeks) had gone home while we were in the NICU, contracted RSV, came back to be put on the heart-lung machine, and died. Heartbreaking! Fortunately, Chris went one whole year before he landed in the hospital again with RSV and pneumonia. I blame the fact my breast pump died on a trip to the UK, and he stopped getting breast milk. (He was not able to breastfeed successfully because of bad reflux.)

He faced a whole raft of medical and developmental challenges: not speaking until he was three, and years of worry over his extremely slow weight gain. When he had a grand mal seizure at age nine, I fainted in the midst of my PTSD. He was diagnosed with epilepsy, which he outgrew as a teen.

He continued to defeat obstacles. On a follow-up MRI at six months old (after the cerebral edema incident), doctors found a mass of clustered veins in his brain, and the neurosurgeon told us he needed surgery or he might have a stroke. I asked if they could repeat the MRI in six months. We told very few people, and on his follow-up MRI, the mass was gone.

Although he had some developmental and social delays, he was a happy child from the beginning. Many preemies have a hard time functioning when they go home, but not our Chris. I’ve always thought he’s a wise old soul who realized he almost died several times, and he loves life. Although all three of our kids were late walkers, Chris was an early reader. He has always loved stories, whether in books, theater, or movies. In spite of having the innate wisdom of a preemie, he also has a childlike spirit and loves to play and have fun!

Fast forward through 30 years: Chris has now been married for 4 years to an incredible woman who shares his wisdom, love of life, and childlike spirit. In the last year, he completed his master’s in education, rocked it as the lead in “39 Steps,” saved a theater production when a castmate got COVID, directed a fantastic high school show, and started appearing in dinner detective shows. He works as a high school paraeducator, and his students absolutely adore him!

Not only is Christopher my hero, but he’s also one of the most loving, forgiving, kind people I know. I’m so glad he made me a mom 30 years ago, even though it wasn’t the easiest way to enter parenting! It certainly enriched my life by teaching me an important lesson: that every day is a miracle, indeed.

Celebrating Chris’ 30th last week before Chris and Emma left for California