For four months I practically lived in my bed. I barely could go through the motions of living and it seemed to drain what was left of life from my core to even shower or eat. My husband had already gone back to work because the bills were piling up and collectors didn’t care that we’d buried our two-week-old son on just a few short weeks earlier.
I just couldn’t bring myself to reopen my daycare. I used to be someone who loved children. I dreamed of being a mother, even though I was told it wouldn’t happen due to PCOS. I was no longer who I used to be; I had become someone who couldn’t stand seeing children at all. I envied all mothers, I wondered why each child was pardoned yet mine wasn’t. I was at the lowest of lows in my life with no hope to crawl out of the deep depression that had consumed my once happy, excited, loving soul.
Each night, I thought about praying but couldn’t find the words. I was dwelling on six months worth of negative pregnancy tests, the pain of losing a child, and the fear of never having a living child at home. I was still too angry with God, so I drifted off to sleep without an “Amen” on that cool October night.
That’s when I saw Jackson. He was no longer that tiny 15.4-ounce micro preemie boy I watched fight for his life for 16 days. In fact, he looked to be around two years old. He was so beautiful, angelic even, and dressed in all white. Beside him in a Moses basket was a tiny baby swaddled in a white satin blanket, sleeping. The toddler said, “Mama, this is Dawson. He is coming to see you soon. It’s OK if you love him, because you loved me first.” I heard the most precious giggle I’ve ever heard as the dream faded away. I woke up shaking, sweating, and sobbing ugly tears. I clung to this dream. It gave me such hope again. It carried me through the following year.
After a year of negative tests, weight loss, fertility medications and a lot of tears, we finally got our positive. We crept through our pregnancy one week at a time. After losing our first child due to an unexplained early delivery at 22 weeks, constant fear consumed the entire second pregnancy. Our doctor joined us in counting up the weeks until the baby was “safe” even if born early.
On April 25th, 2016 a beautiful baby blessed our lives a month earlier than his due date, but absolutely on time. As I sat next to his NICU bed feeding him just 72 hours after his arrival, I closed my eyes and sent all my love and a prayer to Heaven. I whispered, “Happy second birthday, my sweet boy. Your baby brother, Dawson, arrived safely and he is absolutely beautiful.”