Saturday, June 17, 2017
Today, Finn Ignatius Gensic turns a month old. I can’t decide if the month flew by or if it crawled. I don’t know if I’m exhilarated or completely drained. All I know is that it has been quite a month.
During the second week of May, I went to my 36 week prenatal visit for this pregnancy that up to that point had been relatively uneventful. The doctor mentioned that my fundal height was a little low, so he scheduled me for a growth scan the following Monday, May 15.
During the ultrasound, I made small talk with the tech, but I could tell that something wasn’t right. There was a tension on the tech’s face that I couldn’t ignore. I was taken to a room for a private consultation with the doctor. Private consultations are never something you hope for in a pregnancy. He told me that the baby was 5 weeks behind in growth, and they didn’t know why. At a follow-up scan the next day, the tech told me that she estimated the baby was only 3 pounds. I was scheduled for an appointment with a high-risk pregnancy doctor in Norman on the 17th.
However, on the evening of the 16th, I went in to the labor and delivery unit here in Ardmore because I was spotting. I informed the nurses that it was probably nothing, but I was a nervous wreck, and could they please check me out. I expected to be home within the hour.
I was hooked up to the monitors that are standard during labor and delivery. As I was lying there, I kept having Braxton Hicks contractions, and after some of the contractions, Finn’s heart would decelerate. Out of concern, they sent me for another ultrasound in the emergency room. Through that midnight ultrasound, we were finally able to determine that my placenta was giving out on Finn.
During the whole night, I was terrified. I could hear Finn’s heart beat, and the decelerations were agony to listen to. By the next morning, BJ and I with the guidance of a warm and reassuring nurse had decided that we wanted a c-section, and we wanted it soon. When my doctor came in, he had reached the same conclusion. He said that it would take him about an hour to get his surgical “A-team” together. He wanted to have the best because of the high-risk nature of this delivery, so we agreed to wait an hour. He then asked BJ if he would like to go on the helicopter with Finn if he had to be flown out. In that moment, I realized how much danger Finn was in.
An hour later, the nurse who had been with me all morning put an arm around my shoulder and walked me to the OR. An incredibly kind anesthesiologist explained to me the process of the epidural since I had never had one, and then he did a wonderful job of prepping me. Soon after, our pediatrician, my doctor, and BJ arrived for the operation.
As I laid on the operating table, I kept silently mouthing three words to God: “David and Goliath.” I didn’t know how to pray eloquently in that moment of incredible fear, but I knew that David was small like my Finn, and I knew he had faced a seemingly insurmountable challenge with God’s support. I figured that if I couldn’t come up with my own words on Finn’s behalf, I would just pray that story for him.
Within minutes of the operation starting, the doctor pulled Finn out, and it only took a few moments for him to belt out a loud, beautiful scream. Our pediatrician gave him high Apgar scores, and said that the helicopter would be able to return without Finn. He only weighed 3 lbs. and 10 oz., but he was in good shape.
The next eight days, Finn and I spent in the hospital here in Ardmore. He couldn’t be discharged until he reached 4 pounds. It was a difficult week for me. BJ couldn’t spend much time with us because he had laryngitis that he didn’t want to expose Finn to. And I was devastated by the idea that my body had failed Finn. He was so small, it was difficult to feel anything but fear and bewilderment: how could this have happened to our baby?
On the day that Finn reached 4 pounds and we were going to get discharged, a nurse came to get him for his assessment. Normally, assessments took only about 10 minutes, but 45 minutes went by when our pediatrician walked into the room. He said that Finn had looked dusky to the nurse, so she had checked Finn’s oxygen and heart rate, and he was showing signs of distress. They had no idea what was wrong with Finn, but our pediatrician wanted to have him flown to Cook’s Children’s Hospital in Fort Worth so that we could get answers fast.
I was so shocked at first, that I couldn’t cry. Numb, I called BJ to tell him. He said that we had been feeling better that morning, and he had been about to leave for the hospital so that he could hold Finn for the first time. At this point, I was able to cry.
BJ arrived soon after I called, and we waited in the hospital room for more information. We were unable to be with Finn while we waited for the flight crew and while he was assessed. About 2 hours after we initially learned everything, there was a knock on our door. It was the flight crew with Finn in an enormous incubator on a stretcher. Finn had multiple tubes already connected to him. I don’t know how to put into words what that moment felt like without leaning on clichés. I’ll just say that my heart broke.
The flight crew gave me a “lovey”, a cloth toy to touch and keep in my shirt so that it would smell like me and so that Finn would have it in the hospital. They explained to us where we needed to go, and told us to drive carefully because speeding wouldn’t help anyone. I was quietly weeping as I stood next to Finn. Pushing the stretcher was a man with a mustache who looked like my dad. As we said our goodbyes to Finn, the man whispered to me repeatedly that Finn would be okay. I decided that since he looked so much like my dad, I would try my hardest to believe him.
The next 12 days in the NICU were a steady stream of terrifying test that our little Finn had to endure. Through it all, he ate and put on weight like a champ. The NICU has a funny way of turning the most laid back mothers and fathers into quintessential helicopter parents, and BJ and I were certainly no exception. We hovered over Finn, and rarely put him down. In the end, it was determined that the growth restriction he had suffered in my womb had put more stress on his body that originally thought, and he just needed more time to put on weight and stabilize.
Twenty days after his dramatic appearance, we were blessed to bring our Finn home. The adrenaline from the experience has not entirely subsided, but we are starting to feel more normal. Finn weighed 5 lbs. 14 oz. at his check this week, so he is doing what he is supposed to be doing. One of the most trying parts of the experience was being separated from Shepherd, Lydia, and Violet, so their crazy chaos is a welcomed presence these days.
The emotions from the past month are still raw. I can’t think about telling Finn goodbye before he was flown to Cooks without crying. His lovey is in our room, and I feel mostly anxiety when I look at it because of the associated memories. But I refuse to throw it away because I know that a day will come when I will smile at those memories.
I have thought a lot this past month about what I will tell Finn about his origin story. I prayed constantly throughout this pregnancy from the moment I knew Finn existed for his health and safety. However, I don’t look at what happened and think God answered “no” to those prayers. I don’t believe God smited us with inter-uterine growth restriction (IUGR) to teach us some lesson or test us in some way. I think the IUGR happened because crap happens sometimes. That is just the way the world is.
What I see when I look at Finn’s story isn’t an unanswered prayer. Rather, what I see is that when my son got dealt a lousy hand by life circumstances, God played for Finn’s team. I see a thousand different ways God protected and shaped Finn despite a sorry excuse for a placenta. Finn’s story is a story of what God can do for the little guy even when the odds are stacked against him. It is a David and Goliath story.
During our twenty days in the hospital and NICU, I often felt like I couldn’t see God. It was as if I was cloaked in the darkest of fogs, a fog built entirely of fear and pain. I told myself that he was present in the nightmare I was going through because he had been present at so many other times in my life, but I couldn’t feel him there. The final night we were in the NICU, BJ and I ran to Target to get a few things we needed for Finn’s expected discharge the next morning. On the way, Fort Worth was adorned by the thickest and most brilliant rainbow I have ever witnessed. Perhaps this is far-fetched, but indulge me for a moment. When I saw that rainbow, a symbol of God’s relationship with humanity, I knew without a doubt that God had been with us the whole time, even when I had felt completely isolated.
As the pictures below shows, Finn has come a long way in a month. We could not be more proud of all he has already accomplished in his little life, and I feel so deeply blessed to be his mom.