I was six months into my pregnancy when it happened. I was getting an oil change, and my two young sons and I were coloring in the waiting room when suddenly I was soaking wet. It didn’t occur to me at first that my water had broken. It was way too early. Another customer noticed and asked if I needed help. We called 911, and soon the store was filled with paramedics. The boys’ grandmother came to pick them up looking sad and said that miscarriages were “just God’s way.”
 

 

This Wasn’t Supposed to Happen

 
I arrived at the hospital with tears pouring down my face. Why was this happening? I had been taking good care of myself and my unborn little girl. A nurse tested the wetness with a stick and informed me it was definitely amniotic fluid. She told me that they would try to stop me from delivering, but that I would be staying in the hospital until my daughter was born. I was in panic mode by this time. What about my sons? Would I lose my job? I felt my whole life change in a split second.
 
I spent the next three weeks lying in my hospital bed, unable to get up to even shower or go to the bathroom. My boys stayed with my ex-husband, but they were not brought to see me. The baby’s father made scant appearances and frankly caused more of a scene rather than being helpful, but I was just worried about keeping my daughter from being born. Every extra day I carried her was a triumph, allowing her more time to develop.

My Daughter is Born

 
One day, during my 26th week, I started to feel uncomfortable. I told the nurse, who assured me that my monitor wasn’t showing contractions. However, an hour later, I started to deliver my baby. I yelled for the nurse, and within seconds I was rushed into the operating room under anesthesia for a Cesarean section.
 
I was awakened a while later. My doctor said my daughter was alive, but he wasn’t sure if she would survive. He offered to wheel my stretcher past her incubator so I could see her. All I could glimpse was her tiny foot sticking up and all her tubes and wires. The image was both shocking and disheartening.
 
I named my baby Vanessa, not giving up hope she would pull through; however, the doctors weren’t optimistic. She was already facing heart surgery to close a small flap that hadn’t closed during pregnancy, and they weren’t sure she would make it through. I made my way over to the nursery and tried to look past the equipment and really see my daughter, even though I couldn’t touch or hold her like I wanted.

Leaving with Empty Arms

 
Four days later, the doctors sent me home. I hated the thought of leaving Vanessa behind, but she was stable. That was the best I could hope for. I visited her every day in the weeks that followed. Her brothers often asked hopefully when their sister could come home. I was still afraid she wouldn’t come home at all. However, slowly but surely, Vanessa got a little stronger every week. Sometime in the second month, I was visiting and was asked by a nurse if I wanted to hold her. I was overjoyed as she was finally placed in my arms. I didn’t want to ever let her go.
 
Vanessa was strong enough for an open incubator three months later, and the doctors and nurses began to work with me getting her to take a full bottle. They didn’t want her to lose even the smallest amount of weight and wanted to make sure she could drink a four ounce bottle in 15 minutes. After that, I was finally able to bring my daughter home. I remember setting Vanessa down on my bed and lying next to her and watching her for hours.

My Daughter Today

 
Vanessa is 7 years old now and a little pistol. She’s an amazing girl who speaks her mind and is not afraid of anything, and she has a very happy life. She gets teased by kids sometimes for being a little smaller, but she takes it in stride. She is a miracle and a fighter, always has been, and I don’t take a minute with her for granted.
 
Glenna Scott

Florida