Forty-Six Days of Uncertainty
Based on a True Story About the Birth of my Son.
August 16th, 2006 – 1:12 P.M.
He was born without a cry.
That silence still echoes in my memory, louder than any scream ever could. The room was full of movement—doctors rushing, nurses focused—but for me, time came to a screeching halt. I didn’t get to hold him in my arms, and I didn’t get a glimpse before they whisked him away. Something was wrong, and I felt it in my bones before they ever said the words: meconium aspiration
The words meant little to me in that moment, and all I knew was he struggled to breathe on his own. He was being life-flighted to a bigger hospital over an hour away, and at the time, they were uncertain if he’d survive.
“Would I be making funeral arrangements for my newborn?” Was the question that burdened my mind.
I was terrified, devastated, and everything in between.
I gave birth but left the hospital with empty arms the following morning. I didn’t know what to do or what tomorrow would bring. I only knew that my baby—the little soul I had carried inside me—was fighting for his life, and I couldn’t be beside him. I drove straight to Hamot Medical Center the minute I was released from Meadville Medical Center to be with my baby boy, JJ.
The first week was the hardest as the machines took each breath for him. Nurses spoke softly, their eyes kind but tired. I can still smell the sterile scent of the NICU and the constant beeping of monitors all around as I whispered prayers and spoke to him through plexiglass.
I tried to be strong, but there were nights I cried so hard that I could barely stand.
And then… little by little, he fought his way back to me.
It wasn’t a sudden shift. It was gradual—measured in ounces gained, breaths taken on his own, lines and tubes being removed one by one. Each tiny milestone felt like a mountain climbed.
After 46 days, we finally brought him home.
Forty-six days of uncertainty.
Forty-six days of tears.
Forty-six days of praying as hard as I could that JJ would make a full recovery.
Forty-six days that changed me as a mother and as a woman.
He was my miracle child, and he still is almost nineteen years later.
Every time I hear his laugh or feel his long arms wrap around me, I remember the silence at his birth—and how far we’ve come since.