This month’s Mom-to-Mom blog post is generously written by Sarha Cahoon, mom and founder of Love for Lily, a non profit that supports parents through NICU experiences. Sahra’s first daughter, Lily, was born early at 24-weeks, and after three and a half months in the neonatal intensive care unit, died at home under hospice care and in the loving arms of her parents. The story below is one of love and loss, of a challenging start to parenthood, and of the immense wisdom and on-going commitment to mothering that can come out of grief.

Sometimes stories like this can be triggering for parents who are pregnant and struggling with anxiety. Please know that it is ok to choose to not read any further, or to accept these words from Sahra with compassion for yourself and reach out for support if needed.

Thank you, Sahra, for sharing your incredible story.

I was asked to write about my journey to motherhood, and as I sat to put pen to paper all I could think of is that my journey into motherhood is much like what I expect a class 5 hurricane to feel like. Strong, magnificent, powerful and leaving devastation in its wake. I am a mama to 3 sassy girls, 2 that walk with us here on earth and 1 who lives in our hearts. Our story is the one that no one wants to hear and yet here I sit writing in hopes that our story might land in front of someone who could use to know they are not alone.

I was 11 weeks pregnant and made an appointment to see the midwives for some spotting. Another check at 12 weeks, still spotting… at 14 weeks I had the first true bleed of my too short pregnancy. I was sent from the midwives to the doctors across the street, and from the doctor’s office to the Maternal Fetal Medicine {MFM}team from Denver. In 4 hours our normal, nothing to worry about pregnancy was now a tear soaked ultrasound room with a kind doctor explaining statistics and risks. What I remember most about that day was that throughout our conversation I was hooked up to monitors and the thundering heart beat of our sweet baby could be heard, steady and strong through the room.

Is this the part of the story where I became a mother? The instinct to protect this little life growing inside me, the fierce love I felt for this tiny one makes me think yes, that room, that day, that was when I became a mother. And yet, was it? There was so much more to be done to make it to the finish line, to be a mother. We didn’t know it yet and it would be only 10 weeks until we met our girl and I would become more than a mother, I would become a mama; Lily’s mama.

10 weeks of bed rest and scans, appointments and statistics, 10 weeks of hope that we could make it far enough - that she could grow enough…

24 weeks 5 days into my pregnancy it was time, our baby girl was coming.

Breathe.

We had already made all the hard choices. No one can ever prepare you for the choices of a 24-weeker. They moved quickly to save me and our girl as we were both now in distress. My husband was waiting in a hallway all alone not knowing what would happen to either of his girls. The lights were so bright. I was so cold. Now he was next to me, his hand in mine. “She’s out” the doctor said. And then as if it was all a terrible dream the room that had been moving in a rhythm with urgency and knowing feel silent and still. As though every person in the room was holding their breath waiting for our baby to breathe. And then she did with a little squeak and a few good kicks the NICU team began again moving quickly to save her. She was intubated and wrapped in a protective plastic to help her delicate skin. As I lay on the operating table with 2 IV ports carrying 5 kinds of medicine and 15 doctors standing around the table; I’m a mother now right?

Was this the moment. I had no baby with me. There was no golden hour. No delayed clamping. No skin-to-skin. Just cords and lights and doctors.

This was not how I imagined motherhood would feel.

I would meet our daughter 6 hours later; I would wait 10 days to hold her. I would learn a new jargon and get at least 50% of a medical school education over the next three and a half months. I would learn to advocate for our daughter, how to hold a 1 lb baby, how to pump milk, how to vent a nasal gastric tube, how to push the staff assist button when she did not recover from an episode with stimulation.

Breathe. Just breathe.

And then, on a chilly October morning in another tear soaked room filled with doctors explaining to us statistics and risk. Talking about our beautiful baby girl as the patient -

“There is nothing more that we can do” they would say.

How can that be so? There has to be something else. Please do something else.

We would bring our daughter home on hospice to live for whatever time she had left. We would walk in the park and snuggle on the couch. This was mothering, I was her mama.

And then she was gone, no more breath. Once again my arms were empty. Our hearts were shattered, this was not what I thought motherhood would look like. In the days and weeks that followed I would ask myself if I was a mother. I would wonder where I belonged. What I know, that I didn’t know in the doctor’s office or hospital room, was that nothing could change that I was Lily’s mama. Forever.

For those who need support, please visit Postpartum Support International to find help in your area or contact The Postpartum Wellness Center/Boulder.

To learn more about Love for Lily, click Here.

Sahra, Thank you.