This post will get a little emotional. Please be advised 😊
In honour of Arabella's soon-to-be 1st birthday, we're looking back on the toughest, but most beautiful year we've ever experienced.
Before the exuberant joy of her birth, before the miracle, there was utter heartache. We were preparing to lose her - and it absolutely broke our hearts.
And well before this blog, there was the journal...
When we first found out that Kiera was pregnant, I was inspired to document the journey. I had never kept a journal before, but I felt like I needed something to help me record my thoughts, and the entire experience altogether. I wanted to make sure I remember it. So every week I would write down a brief story and recount the most important updates. I thought to myself, "It'll be nice to one day look back on this, and perhaps read a few pages to my future son or daughter."
The early pages of the journal were filled with great optimism, of course. It was sheer joy. We constantly compared the baby's weight to fruit (thanks to the 'What To Expect' app), and we were counting down the months and weeks to May. "What a beautiful month to have a baby", we said.
Soon after, we found out that we were going to have a girl, and that brought us even more joy. We were so excited. We were happy. We had great plans.
Then we saw our first glimpse of uncertainty. At week 16 of the pregnancy, Kiera's AFP blood results had foreshadowed something unimaginable. "What did this result mean? Was it simply a false-positive? What could possibly be going on?", we thought to ourselves.
After a few appointments, it seemed like it wasn't anything relating to genetics. And as the weeks rolled on, we were eventually referred to a specialized high-risk placenta clinic. By then, Arabella's growth was at a major slow-down, but Kiera and I were still naively hopeful. "She's just a little behind", we thought. "Maybe their weight calculations are off by a few weeks?". We were trying to convince ourselves what we wanted to believe.
After our first ultrasound at the high-risk clinic, following countless measurements, (literally hours of double checking by the technician) we finally met with the doctor. He had a look at all the notes and images, and he was very frank with us. He said the words I'll never forget, "It's going to get tricky".
He showed us the baby growth chart, and then marked a dot well below the lowest 'average' line. It wasn't even close. At that moment, everything started to sink in. Here was our baby, this tiny dot, drowning in a tidal wave of 'averages'. I imagined her underwater, struggling to swim, unable to rise to the top. I felt sick to my stomach.
We left the clinic that evening, got into a taxi, and quietly held hands in the backseat. None of us said a word. Our minds were buzzing with our own questions, wondering how this would all unfold. "It's going to get tricky", those words were echoing in my head.
As soon as we got home, we put away our shoes and coats, and we gave each other the biggest hug. We both started crying. "I'm so sorry," Kiera kept repeating. "It's okay", I tried to reassure her, "It's not your fault. We'll get through this".
From that point on, we had weekly ultrasounds at the clinic. The following week Kiera was granted a leave from work, and she stayed home to limit the amount of stress placed upon her.
Before I continue, here are my last four journal entries before Arabella was born.
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Feb. 1, 2017
Another hospital visit under our belt - and things are so uncertain for the baby. She's weighing roughly 430 grams at the moment, and we desperately need her to keep growing. The good news is that she's still kicking a lot and she has enough oxygen going to her brain. The worst part is that the doctor told us that she could lose her heartbeat at anytime. We talked about the possibility of Kiera giving birth to a still-born. The idea of that makes us feel scared and horribly sad. It's heartbreaking.
What can we do. We're trying to come to terms with it all, but we're not giving up. We're going to keep fighting and do whatever we can to overcome this.
Everyday I put my hand on Kiera's belly. And everyday I feel the baby kicking and reaching out to us. I wish I could help her. I wish we could help feed her. I already love her so much. For some reason this placenta isn't giving her the nutrients that she needs. We're praying that she makes it. So many people are praying for us as well. Please Lord, keep our baby safe.
Now I know how parents feel - they would do anything to make sure their children are safe from harm. Nothing else really matters to me at this point. She means everything to me.
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Feb. 8, 2017
We're coming to the end of the road with our baby girl. Yesterday was another all-day event at the clinic. She's weighing roughly 470 grams, and they're telling us that she's just too little. The placenta is giving her too many problems. It looks like she's not going to make it. Kiera and I both cried for a while yesterday. And again today. Every morning is especially difficult. It's tough. It's not fair. We were so excited. We couldn't wait to hold her in our arms. And now we have to come to terms with her passing away. She's still kicking - and it breaks my heart. We're devastated. I can't say more.
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Feb. 9, 2017
Another day at the clinic. We're exhausted. Kiera had a bath afterwards and we felt the baby kick, then bunch up into a ball. I'm certain she loves the bath.
Today we tried to have a better outlook on things. It feels like there's nothing we can do now, so we might as well enjoy the time we have left with the baby. We cried for a while again today.
I did a lot of reading. I came across an interesting article about a couple who was coping with the eventual loss of their baby. The baby had some kind of horrible condition and would only get to live for a few days after birth. So the parents basically created a "bucket list" for the baby. While in the womb, they took their baby around the world. They took pictures at every chance, at every major stop and monument, and made the most of the time they had left. It would be a memory that neither of them would ever forget. I suppose that's how some people cope. You learn to cherish the time you have, you learn to live, you love, and then you have to let go.
She really is a beautiful baby. Kiera and I are so attached to her. It's hard imagining life without her. From the moment we found out Kiera was pregnant we imagined holding that baby and loving it so much. How do you say goodbye to that? I don't think I've ever felt this way. I love the fact that she'll always be my first, but I'm so sad to one day be letting her go.
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Feb. 14, 2017
Valentines Day. We were at the clinic at 8:30am. Another ultrasound. More measurements. This might have been our last visit before she passes away. Her fluid was really low today and I had a hard time dealing with that. I think she's starting to struggle. We don't know how many days we have left with her. This is one giant tragedy.
She was a fighter. She loved bath time. She seemed really happy and playful. She liked listening to music when we put headphones up to Kiera's belly. We were talking to her and praying together as a family every night before bed. We would read her books. Lilianna once named her "Baby Good" and she really was a good baby. A beautiful baby. We decided to call her Arabella. Mommy and daddy love you, and we will always love you. Happy Valentines Day.
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I was basically saying goodbye to her in that last journal entry. We thought we were at the end of the road. At that time, Arabella was showing reversed blood flow in the umbilical arteries for about two weeks, which meant that time was not on our side.
She was still below the viable weight, and in order to give her a chance at life we were dealing with great odds, possibly risking future pregnancies (by cutting into a thick uterus), and potentially putting Arabella through a life of major physical and/or mental disabilities.
We had heard it all. The doctors convinced us that having Arabella would be the biggest gamble of our life, and they showed us the percentages that played into their narrative. One doctor from the NICU even came to tell us personally that the babies she sees first-hand (around Arabella's size) "have a lot of major, life-long complications".
Our backs were against the wall.
Kiera and I had a lot of difficult discussions. We talked about potentially raising a disabled child. Are we ready for this? And what if she doesn't survive the c-section? What if she has major complications after birth? Do we have enough strength to watch her suffer? We had a million questions.
And then, like a ray of hope, our family told us they would support us, regardless of what happened. "If she's paralyzed or disabled, we'll be there to help you guys", they said. "You'll never know if you don't take the chance. Don't be scared. Trust in God."
They were the realest conversations we ever had. And they were right.
If we let Arabella pass away, we would regret it for the rest of our lives. People refer to moments like this as 'the turning point'. Thinking about that kind of regret put things in a new perspective for me. Suddenly, it wasn't about what would happen if we did take a chance - but what would happen if we didn't.
Two days after that Valentines Day appointment, Kiera and I packed our bags and decided we would go for one last scan on the Friday morning. We had nothing to lose. If anything, it would be one more chance to see our baby.
Kiera was quiet the entire Thursday night. She didn't say a single word to me. The anxiety was almost unbearable. It was clear to me that she was scared. She knew I was in a different frame of mind.
On Friday morning, we arrived at the clinic nice and early, and because of our dire situation, we didn't have wait very long to be seen. We got in the room, Kiera laid down, and the ultrasound technician began her scans. Arabella's fluid was very low, but her heartbeat was still there. Thank goodness.
That was the first good sign.
She continued scanning. Then the technician said something that peaked our interest, as she zoned into Arabella's belly. "Here you can see her diaphragm moving. We typically call that 'practice breathing'", she said.
"What does that mean?", we asked. "Oh, it's just an indicator that she's getting ready to breathe on her own", she replied. "Oh, really?", we said.
That was the second sign.
Following the scan, and after asking the technician tons of questions, we asked her to page the doctor. "We're considering the c-section," I said. "Are we able to chat with the doctor?"
We went into another room and waited. Kiera was already shaking at this point. I held her hand tight. "It's going to be okay!", I said. "God's with us. Don't worry."
The doctor came in, along with a young fellow in training. "So I heard that you guys are thinking about going through with it?", he said.
"Yes sir", I replied. "I have a good feeling about it. There's a lot of people out there praying for this baby. We just know that we have to do this."
I think he sensed our determination. He wasn't going to talk us out of it.
Knowing that Kiera was scared, I asked the doctor to explain the c-section to us in more detail, and to clear up any confusion with regard to the uterus. We had been previously told that a vertical cut might increase the chances of a uterine rupture in the future, due to the fact that the uterus wasn't very expanded (on account of Arabella being so small).
Somehow, he managed to reassure Kiera. He said it's rare that it would be a vertical cut. Chances are that it would be a horizontal 'bikini' cut, and it wasn't something to stress over. The doctor performing the surgery was one of the best.
That was our third sign.
Kiera began to calm down (slightly). After a few more questions and answers, the doctor then left the room to make a few phone calls.
While we waited, I pulled out my journal from my backpack. "Look at this Kiera", I said. "If you have any remaining doubts, this should put them to rest."
I showed Kiera a page from December, where I once wrote that I had a feeling our daughter's favourite number would either be 7 or 17.
Low and behold, it was the 17th.
That was yet another sign, and it was just what Kiera needed. I think she started to believe.
Within the next hour, Kiera was admitted to the hospital for an emergency c-section. Time was of the essence, so she was only given one round of steroids, and officially gave birth to Arabella at 2:28pm.
Following the delivery, Arabella was placed on the 17th floor in room 77...
Just in case Kiera and I still had doubts of what was ahead, God threw in one last sign to let us know that it was going to be alright.
And like something out of a storybook, Arabella went on to spend 177 days before being discharged from the hospital.
Needless to say, the number 7 and 17 have become all of our favourite numbers.
Thanks God, for giving us the signs we needed 💗
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I know that some of these posts are a little too raw, and perhaps difficult to read. Thanks for sticking with us until the end.
My hope is that these words reach you (and maybe others in a similar situation), so that you too can find faith and hope in your own struggles.
God bless.
