The pregnancy continued uneventfully, and labor began right on schedule. I waited as long as I could before heading to the hospital, but not too long because I wanted an epidural. Two very natural, very difficult labors before this had taught me that natural childbirth was NOT for me, and I didn't care about the experience. I was all done with that! The baby had not dropped properly and so the Doctor had me walking the halls and so on. And then I found out that the Doctor had not ordered an epidural and our little hospital did not have the wherewithal to do one. OH NO! I had checked and double checked on this beforehand and been assured that I could have one. And so, I added being very angry to my horrible anxiety. Two awful emotions to keep under control while in labor. The Doctor joked later that my mad may have moved labor along. Another very long, very difficult labor, and Alana Marie entered our world. A healthy 9 pounds and 6 ounces, she was 23 and half inches long. No wonder labor had been difficult!
In the hours that followed, I underwent a small surgery and Alana was taken care of by the nursing staff. I nursed her and after spitting up most of it, she slept. Later, she continued to spit up over and over again, and I noticed that when I nursed her, the milk would come up and out her nose, too. I insisted that something was wrong, and began to feel that horrible anxiety bubble to the surface. Nearly frantic and still not over the fact that they made me go through another painful natural birth, I told every nurse that came in that I felt something was wrong, but I tried to keep to myself just how scared I was. I didn't want them to think I was crazy, and I didn't want my fear and anger to ruin my testimony for Christ either. They explained the problem away, saying that she must have just swallowed amniotic fluid during delivery and that she would be fine. Our pediatrician came and declared her healthy. And I continued to be afraid. I prayed about what to do, but I was tired. I would fall asleep for only a few minutes at time. Finally, when she threw up again and I heard a distinct whistle in her breathing, I could not stand to be quiet any longer. Not caring if they thought I was crazy or had a bad attitude, I hauled my exhausted, sore body out of bed, picked up my sweet infant, and stumbled to the nurses station. I banged none to kindly on their window until I had everyone's surprised eyes on me. Then, I insisted, again none to kindly, that they get my doctor back in here to look at this child or I was leaving to find him myself. I knew where he lived, after all, I declared. One nurse came around the nurses station to me and gently reached for the baby, I'm sure thinking that I was unstable. She unwrapped my baby, watched her breathe, and then suddenly ran with her to another room. A wheelchair caught me from behind as I almost collasped, another nurse realizing my need.
The Doctor was called, and then my memory, perfectly clear up to that point, begins to get hazy. I know I called my husband or my parents. All of them came. I remember that there where nurses and doctors surrounding my precious baby. I remember that I pushed through to kiss her, touch her, let her know that Mommy was there. I remember my husband's arm supporting me. I remember another set of special doctor and nurses arriving from Bangor, who would take the baby to the NICU at Eastern Maine Medical. And I remember one small piece of scripture playing through my exhausted, emotional, frantic mind. "My help cometh from the Lord", "My help cometh from the Lord", My help cometh from the Lord". Over and over it seemed to play through my brain like a heartbeat.
Doctors instructed my husband to head to Eastern Maine Medical Center where our baby would be taken and seen by a pediatric surgeon. Our family care doctor explained what he thought was the problem. I did not take in anything other than surgery, experts, and Bangor. They told us that the special NICU ambulance that would be transporting her would most likely pass us on the way, but that we shouldn't try to keep up, and if it stopped that we were to just continue on. Stopping meant that equipment needed to be stabilized. I remember that the doctors tried to assure us that it would be ok, but I looked at the almost gray face of my family care doctor, and watched the frantic movements of the NICU team, and knew that she would not make it. I kissed her, spent a moment touching the soft little head and cheeks of my beautiful newborn. My tears fell on her face as I was gently pulled away so the doctors could continue their work. And then we headed out to Bangor. My husband held me and prayed. We told the Lord that we only wanted His will, but that we wanted our baby, too. In the end, we released Alana Marie's little life into almighty hands, and I slept the entire hour long trip to the hospital.
Once at the NICU, I remember sitting at a desk trying desperately to understand as the surgeon explained what the problem was, and what he would do to correct it. I remember that he drew a picture for me. My husband took all of that in and would explain it to me several times in the hours to follow. At just 24 hours old, Alana received emergency surgery to repair an esophageal atresia, a birth defect that causes the esophogus to form a pocket rather than continue to the stomach. At the same time, she had another defect called tracheoesophogeal fistula, a hole in the trachea, and the reason she couldn't breathe properly. She had aspirated through this hole while feeding and now had aspiration pneumonia. She was in very critical condition when she arrived in Bangor.
During surgery, my husband and I where given an empty room in the nearby maternity ward. I was sure that I would pace the whole time. We cried together and prayed together and cried some more, having to again release the outcome to our God and our baby into His hands. I remember my husband praying aloud to show himself mighty and to answer our plea to keep our baby. And then he prayed something like this, "Lord, she is yours. You made her, you gave her to us. This has to be your will. Lord, and we accept it. Give us the peace that you promised." My heart cried out with his as I again released the outcome to God. I went through several stages of grief at that point, convinced that I had lost a child. And then I laid down for just a moment and fell asleep. People have argued with me about my claim that that sleep was the result of answered prayer. That I had indeed received the peace that I cried out for. They argued that I was exhausted from the labor and the ongoing lack of sleep thereafter, so my body naturally took over. I do not believe this. I claim that peace came, and then sleep, while a certain verse of scripture continued its gentle heartbeat. While I slept, Terry got on the phone. He called every colleague, family member, pastor, and friend he could think of and then had them call everyone that they knew. He asked them to pray earnestly right then for our baby. Before he finished we had people all over the world praying for Alana Marie Upcott and her surgeon.
I don't remember how I awakened, but I remember being in the NICU when they rolled an incubator with tubes everywhere into a designated area. I remember looking at the other incubators and warming beds. The babies were so tiny and helpless. They hardly looked real. Returning my attention to my baby, I was overwhelmed by the tubes, wires, and bandages on my beautiful little one and couldn't stop the tears. They just flowed and flowed silently as I stood over her. But she was still with us! And I let myself feel a tiny bit of relief. And more tears poured down my face. I couldn't seem to stop them. I remember people telling me about her condition at that point, but all I could take in was the sight of my baby's chest moving up and down with the help of a ventilator. I watched the monitor, and learned what each wavy line meant. And then I just watched her breathe.
People came. My Mom and Dad. Terry's deacon and his wife. A nearby Pastor friend and his wife. My brother and his wife took us to dinner one evening, but my mind and heart was in the NICU. My Mom offered to take pictures of Alana, but I thought that Mom meant that I needed them to remember Alana by because she wouldn't live. In anger, I said no. Now I wish I had let her take some, but I wouldn't allow pictures until I was sure that she was recovering. I have tried to analyze why I did that, and I can't really come up with anything other than fear, plain and simple.
We were told, as Alana recovered, that she would probably be developmentally delayed, and that she would have to continue to have surgeries to stretch the area in her esophagus. Also, we could expect feeding issues, and other problems. We listened and prayed over that, but at that point,we were so glad that she had made it, we didn't care.
In the days that followed, Alana got stronger and began to recover. Day by day, the different tubes where taken away. Soon, we could hold her, rock her, and feed her. As we spent each day either in the NICU with Alana or at the Ronald McDonald House, we became more and more aware of the miracle that we were living through. The first thing that we remember talking about was the peace, sleep, and the loving prayers and care of all of our friends and family. We were amazed, humbled, and awestruck. Next, awhile after the surgery, Alana's surgeon spoke to Terry. He said that he noticed on our forms that Terry's occupation was a minister. He shared some of what had happened in the OR and that he, at one point, stopped to call his wife. It was the middle of the night, but he called his wife to ask her to pray for the infant that he was operating on. He shared that he did that from time to time when he had a particularly bad case. He also said that he knew we were Christians and had people praying because he could feel God's guidance during surgery. A Christian surgeon who allows God to guide him? That is miraculous! Thirdly, Terry and I had very little in those days. We had only been in the ministry full time for one year, and our church was not fully supporting us yet. But, our church family had taken a step of faith in order to provide us with health insurance. There had been discussion about whether or not paying that much per month was worth it. There was talk of a possible change in coverage, and Maine was struggling at that time with allowing any half decent insurance at all. But God in his wisdom, or maybe mercy, allowed us to still have that good insurance and we never saw a bill from Alana's surgery or her entire stay in the NICU. Further, we were supposed to give a small amount to the Ronald McDonald House each night that we stayed there, but on our last day as we were getting packed up to leave, Terry approached the man in charge of running the place and said that he would pay as soon as he could. The big, burly man threw his arms around him, asking how our baby was, and told Terry to never mind. He was just glad there was a happy ending. The financial side of this story was the miraculous hand of God. There is no other explanation. Fourth, as our little one came home and began to grow, we watched her with some concern, but we were always amazed at the lack of issues relating to her problems at birth. She had a hacking cough because of her surgery site, that often sent people running when we were in public. But, she thrived and grew just like my other two children had. I would tear up all the time in those days whenever I would consider what a little miracle she was.
Remember my anxiety throughout my entire pregnancy? I can only say that God must have been preparing me to act. If I had not been so anxious about my baby. If I had not been worried over her, it might have been too late by the time the nurses and doctors figured out that there really was a problem. Another miracle, I say. Because, if you knew me at that time, I was not easily rattled. I was laid back, easy going, not bothered by much. Certainly not the worry wort that I tend to be today! God knew me so well! So He, in His infinite wisdom, did what he needed to do to get me to act.
Remember that scripture that played through my mind like a heartbeat? Once my brain was able to function normally again, I remembered the entire scripture surrounding this wonderful tidbit, and looked it up. It is very special to me.
Psalm 120
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the Lord, which made Heaven and Earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: He that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.
The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore."
Remember how distraught I was? Remember how I could not take in half of what was going on? In my exhausted, emotional, shocked state, how did I ever make it through? The simple answer is, I didn't make it. God carried me through it in his almighty arms when I was too weak to do it alone. That is miraculous!
Today, our Alana continues to amaze us. Yes, it turns out, she does have some learning disabilities, but only enough to put her one year behind in school. It turns out that she struggles a bit socially and is a little behind her peers in maturity. We don't mind. It turns out that she is also very prone to colds and pneumonia. The surgery left her with a compromised area in her throat. She is unable to cough effectively, making any phlegm stick around in one place too long and cause infection. But, she has needed no further surgery. Her need for no further treatment, and having no real glaring problems in other areas, according to her doctors, is miraculous!
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