Love, Savannah

“Dear NICU Mama, when you feel alone, I hope you know what unimaginable strength is growing within you every single day. I hope you feel it rising gracefully with the sun each and every morning, taking its time like all worthwhile things do.

I hope you know that only the kind of love that moves mountains could precede an ache this deep.

I hope you know the warmth of your touch is the first home your baby ever knew.

I hope you know how proud the woman you once were is of you.

I hope you know she’s still in there—only tougher, braver, weary but never relenting.

I hope you know that fearlessness is not the absence of fear; it is the presence of love.

I hope you know how bewildering your unmeasurable fortitude is.

I hope you know you held the whole world for your baby when all they knew was crashing around them, and that will never change.

I hope you know the loneliness you feel is felt by so many others like you with a story just as unique as your own. I hope you know that such a difference connects us all in a deep and specific way.

 I hope you know how special your baby is and how special you are—how special it is that you are your child’s mother.

 I hope you know that within every completed milestone and every sigh of relief is your essence, that without a shadow of a doubt YOU are your baby’s good days. You are your baby’s miracle.

 I hope you know that parenthood at its core is merely a promise to always look after someone, and you have done that tenfold.

 I hope you know that even on your darkest day you are your child’s sun, the light in which they orbit. Always.

NICU Mama, when you feel alone, I hope you know the most beautiful, selfless, unadulterated love you’ll ever know is one with no finish line. That no matter where you are in your pain, your progress, or your hopes, this love is unlike any other. This love is forever, and it lives safely inside your baby’s hands where it can never be lost. This love is as real and as magic as they come. It’s one for the ages.””

Love,
Savannah

More of Savannah + Griffin’s NICU Journey:

“Griffin’s due date was 11/19/21. On 11/17/21, just 2 days prior, Griffin’s dad was in a car accident just around the corner from our home while I was on the phone with him. I heard everything, and I was terrified, but thankfully everyone involved was okay. The next morning, we had our 40 week visit with our nurse practitioner. She told us that my body was not ready yet and to enjoy our very last weekend together—that she would see us Tuesday instead. So, we did just that! We shopped all day, had dinner, and stopped to look around a Christmas tree farm in anticipation of our favorite holiday. On the way home, however, as luck would have it, we were again involved in another car accident. This time, we were hit on the passenger side, where I was sitting, and where Griffin’s car seat sat.

I seemed uninjured, but I panicked, and EMS clocked my blood pressure at 180/70 even after 10 minutes of working to calm down. We then made our way to L&D for monitoring where we were initially told all was well, and we could likely go home that night. After being told to wait time and time again until the sun began to rise, we were instead given the news that my body was no longer a safe place for Griffin; we were not going home, and an induction was on the horizon. We were heartbroken.

I labored over the next 36 hours as I tried to accept our new circumstances. Nurses flipped me from front to back and side to side over and over aiming to regulate Griffin’s dropping heart rate, which we were told was common. I knew once our son was here, at least this nightmare would be over.

Instead, Griffin was born at 10:39pm on Saturday, 11/20/21. He was thrust onto my chest for just a couple of moments, where I felt him only briefly, before his dark blue lifeless body was pulled from my grasp and taken to the other side of the room.

Griffin was not breathing. He was given oxygen and quickly taken away to safety. All I truly recall about these moments are my husband’s forehead against mine, telling how great I’d done, as I continuously asked, “Is he okay?” Our doctor finally answered only, “He’s having some trouble, but they’re working on him.” I responded with, “I’m scared.”

Hours passed before a neonatologist we’d never met before came into our room to tell us for the first time that our son had not been able to breathe when he was born. The most vivid memory I have from this experience is her cold demeanor when she looked at us flatly and said, “I am very concerned about neurological damage. Your son may never walk, talk, or know you’re there, or he may be fine. There is no way to know until we know.” My husband says she told us we’d be transferring hospitals where Griffin could receive appropriate therapy and likely stay for 2 to 4+ weeks, but all I remember from then forward is numbness.

Over the next 2 weeks, rather than the outcome we’d been preparing for, one we feared so desperately, Griffin came back to life with fervor, and in time, passed each and every test he was given with flying colors. We held him for the first time after 5 days, and over Thanksgiving, we learned his MRI was clear. There was no sign of damage.

Just 11 days after he was born, Griffin came home with us with little more than medication for his rapid heart rate and the gratefulness in our hearts. Today he is our perfect 5-month-old boy, who is not only completely healthy and so happy but hitting milestones early. We are now and forever changed by the horror that we felt on that day in November and the days following, days that were supposed to be the best of our lives, but Griffin is here—he is here, and he is ours. And we are so thankful.”