It had been 8 hours since they rushed Olivia to the NICU, and I didn’t even get a moment to meet her.
As I was wheeled down the long hallways of the hospital, the anticipation to see her was building. The fear of not knowing what would be her outcome, coupled with the loss of Abigail was all too debilitating. They were created as two, and now tragically one. How can you think of one, without thinking of her twin? You can’t, it’s impossible.
We entered the doors of the NICU and it was like I stepped into a foreign world--one that I didn’t even know existed, until now. A washing station greeted me, in which I’d scrub my hands and fingernails clean, throw on a new hospital gown and proceed in. There I would see a small room filled with isolettes, hooked up to wires and machines everywhere, with micro preemies fighting for their lives inside. I managed to get the strength to walk to hers. The pain of my csection was nothing in comparison to the pain of not being able to see or hold my babies.
I remember the very moment I laid my eyes on her--a memory that will be engraved in my mind forever. I started sobbing uncontrollably. I never would have imagined she’d look the way she did, especially because Abigail did not. That and I never thought I’d have to see my baby through a tear-stained plexi-glass box.
She was tiny. So tiny that she’d fit in the palm off my hands. Her weight had dropped to 15 ounces, and was 10 ¾” long--not even the size of a ruler or the weight of a stick of butter. Her eyelids fused shut as her eyes were meant to be growing in my womb for another 5 weeks before they could open. Her skin was translucent, with not an ounce of fat. With her blood vessels visible, and her tiny lungs being filled with oxygen, she looked like a baby bird that had fallen out of a nest. My sweet miracle baby was barely holding on. She lay there lifeless, looking as if death was the only option. The nurses, doctors, and specialists would brief me one after another. My mind overloaded, and my heart broken––the prognosis did not look anywhere near good with only a 15% chance of survival.
The night before when I held Abigail in my arms, I unswaddled her. I kissed her tiny fingers and toes, while I said my goodbyes. I wanted to remember every inch of her. She had not a scratch or bruise on her entire body. Abigail looked angelic like. Tiny yet perfect--so much so that when I finally got to see Olivia, I was in shock. Abigail was the one who was sick. She was twin A. She came first and we later found out that her sac was the one who had carried the infection, which forced my body into preterm labor. So how in the world could Olivia look worse than her?
Everything about it didn’t make sense, until it did, so many miracles later. God’s plans never make sense to us in formation, and if trust him enough, only in reflection. I believe in my heart that it was apart of Gods plan to bless me with twins, because he knew that only Olivia would survive. If Abigail, my beautiful angel baby did not sacrifice her life for her sister, Olivia would not be here.
Olivia is his miracle child. She is a direct reflection of God, his almighty powers, and a walking miracle. His plans for her do not come with out tragedy, but the good that she was destined to bring was his plan all along.
NICU LIFE: Miracles + Tragedies Part 2Sep 26, 2017
If you haven't read part one, you can read it here.