Breanna and Jack doing really well. Breanna's blood pressure remains periodically elevated, and Jack has a couple preemie issues yet to completely resolve, but it's unbelievable how far God has brought us! I thought Breanna's memoir from the earlier days was too good NOT to share!

I’m eating pie and it hits me…that my baby son might not survive. Jerry had had his ear to the phone with the doctor, long distance to the US. I didn’t hear the doctor say ‘if he survives the flight, there’s a 90% chance we can save him’.

Jerry is discussing the phone call with our friends. Ted and Liisa invited us to share our last meal before driving us to the airport to catch our flight to the US for Jack’s emergency delivery. Liisa had very little notice we’d be there for dinner, yet she made this awesome pie from scratch. I love pie. I really love pie, but this piece suddenly becomes a rock in my stomach. It hits me that we may lose our baby Jack, and I cannot imagine surviving the pain of such a thing. I want to freeze time, right here when I feel him move and know he’s OK. I’m terrified of the 24 hours of travel between now in Nairobi, Kenya and then at the hospital in Indianapolis. I couldn’t bear losing him, can’t bear such a loss. Others might be strong enough but it would ruin me.
Crazy self-absorbed thoughts like this continue to bombard my head and heart as I feel closed off in a deep hole and suddenly alone.

But the smiles, reassurances and prayers of so many that love us bouy me to the surface of the hole and I can climb out and cling to the details of travel to keep my mind off the thought of the agony of losing this sweet child.
Jerry’s looking after the kids and getting them fed. I feel suddenly alone in my hospital room. The peace of the quiet has subsided and now I just feel anxious to see my baby. I shuffle into the hall toward the NICU. Well I thought I was shuffling to the NICU. I am lost on my hospital floor like a little kid and might break down in tears.
My nurse sees me and gently berates me for not asking for help, which I hate doing – asking for help. I am relieved though, to be wheeling in the direction of my son. I feel like he really is my sun now and I need to be in his orbit.

IMG_1994I am one of those ugly criers, and it’s worse when I can’t keep from crying. I see him for the first time as a tiny moving, breathing piece of fragile china. His face is hardly visible with his breathing tube, hat, and mask to protect his eyes from the bright light. HIs arms look like spindly birds wings and his flesh hangs off his arms but stretches over his jaw. He’s so incredibly tiny and I don’t even understand how he CAN be alive. The tears come hot and fast and unstoppable and the ugly starts. My nurse consoles me, these are normal feelings, it’s ok to cry. I can’t help it, he’s alive and a miracle and why did God choose to be so merciful to me? And I’m suddenly self-conscious. I’m in an unflattering hospital gown ugly bawling by myself. I look like a crazy single mom that’s not holding it together, overwhelmed with responsibility. But I’m part of a wonderful marriage and baby Jack will be so well taken care of and loved and we flew across the world to take care that he would make it. I am jetlagged and exhausted, hormonal and relieved and depressed and overwhelmed. How can we possibly take this little bird home to Africa?
There’s a mom holding her big baby and I’m so jealous. My baby’s locked in an incubator and I can only touch him every several hours.