Ever walk through weeks, maybe even months, where life seems to just be relentless? One thing happens which leads into something else, which makes way for the next and cascades into a succession of rocks flying past you at high speed, some narrowly missing you and others just smashing you right in the face? Well I’m there. In the middle of the “rock storm”, dodging some and being taken out completely by others. Catastrophes never seem to fly solo. They work together as a team. Always appearing as a sequence of events. Why is that?

This last month has been exhausting. Four weeks ago I flew to the UK to see my family and friends for the last time before our little boy makes his entrance into the world. Very pregnant. It was supposed to be a happy time. Celebrating the miracle of a little life which we didn’t think would ever happen. The end of a very long wait and infertility journey. Within 36 hours of landing I got a call from one of THE absolute closest people in my life. My person. The one I speak to about quite literally everything. A mentor, a second mom, a best friend, spiritual leader, counselor, family, like I said… “everything”. A very large brain tumor had been identified and she needed emergency brain surgery to get it removed. BAM. Receiving news like that stops your world for a second. You have to catch your breath. Steady your feet. In 16 years I’ve never even stopped to think that anything could ever happen to my person. She’s just steady. Solid. Always there, no matter what. In 16 years it’s never crossed my mind that she’s also just a human – fragile, vulnerable and exposed to the same threats we all face every single day. Surgery wouldn’t happen for a few more weeks so I decided to put it in a little box, tuck it away on a shelf and ignore it for now. I get excited again about the 12 days ahead and focus my attention on the trip and my immediate surroundings. 

48 hours after landing. Another call comes through and one of my little sisters has been hospitalized. I’m not going to go into details but the following few days were really tough. Feelings of helplessness, out of control desperation and an urge to want to step in and fix an awful situation took over. There’s not much worse than seeing someone you love so deeply go through something so hopeless and not be able do to anything about it. I took out another little box, stuffed it in, sealed it up and put it on the shelf next to the other box. “I’ll get back to that when I know how to fix it.”

72 hours into my trip. It’s 9am. My husband calls. Seeing as I’m 5 hours ahead of him I know immediately something is wrong. His dad, my father-in-law, Karl, has had a heart attack and is being air-flighted to an ICU near our house. As I sit on the couch in my mom’s house, 4000 miles away, life stops all over again. I focus on my breathing. Try to hold back the tears as I hear the panic in Ryan’s voice and a very deep ache in the pit of my stomach tells me I might not get to see Karl ever again. I shift gears and click into responsive mode. Start messaging our community for prayer and ask friends to check in on the dogs, knowing the following days will be a blur and we need help. After getting off the phone, the waiting game of news begins and a battle of uncertainty unfolds in my head. Do I fly back? I’ve been in England less than 3 days. So much money spent on tickets, I’m too pregnant to fly home and come back again. I only get to see my family a couple of times a year. I don’t know what to do. I spend the afternoon seeing my little sister in hospital, trying to focus on what’s in front of me, but struggling to push the weight of life off of me. 

It’s supposed to be a happy time. A celebration of life. The miracle inside of me kicks continuously, keeping me grounded and reminding me of the good that’s still very much at play, despite the dark that’s trying to take over.

As the weekend progresses Karl starts to improve a little. I breathe. Maybe it’ll all be ok after all. I box up the heart attack, the ICU, the guilt of not being there supporting my family and my husband, I tape up the box and place it on the shelf next to the others. The shelf creaks a little under the weight, but it remains sturdy enough.

8 of my best friends throw me a surprise baby shower that weekend and I’m so thankful I stayed to enjoy some very special moments with my family and friends. 

7 days into my 12-day trip Ryan calls. The news is not good. Karl has taken a turn for the worst and it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it after all. He asks if I want to FaceTime with him. I will never forget my last ever call with a man I loved so very very much. He was so frail. The moment I saw him I knew I would never get to hug him goodbye. Never hold his hand again. Never be able to introduce our baby boy to him, the promise he’d prayed for alongside us and cried so many tears at Christmas when we shared the news of pregnancy with him. I knew as I looked into his eyes and he told me how much he loved me that I wouldn’t make it back in time. That FaceTime was the hardest call I’ve ever been on. Little pieces of my heart shattered as we spoke and said our goodbye’s. I asked him to hold on. He promised me he would try. The guilt of my selfishness took over and I released Karl from that promise and told him “it’s ok. You can let go. I know one day I will see you again.” Karl passed away that evening.

I had already changed my flights and was on the next flight home cutting my trip short by 4 days which broke my heart all over again. 

Tired. So tired and so emotional I sit on the plane. 9 hours to Atlanta, transfer, then on to Norfolk. The baby sits high against my diaphragm. This is even more uncomfortable than on the way over. It’s hard to breathe. The moment the seatbelt sign turns off I get up and go and stand at the back. I’m so tired. I try and sit down again, it’s really hard to breathe. I stand for the next 7 hours. Legs aching, back throbbing, fortunately the team of flight attendants are amazing, checking up on me every few minutes. Bad turbulence hits. I have to go sit down. Breathe. It’s so tight. No matter what position I attempt to sit in, I can’t get quite enough air. Turbulence stops, I immediately stand up. Another hour passes. I’ve now been stood for 8 hours straight. Turbulence hits again. You’ve got to be kidding. I sit down. Why is my chest so tight sitting down? I must have looked very uncomfortable because a flight attendant comes over and checks my circulation… “You need to be on oxygen, like now”. I go to the back with her and get put on oxygen. “Please body, please don’t start doing this to me now. Please just get me home.” I spend the remaining two hours of the flight on oxygen. A ground medical team is waiting for me when we land in Atlanta. They tell me to get to a hospital but all I want to do is get home. I get cleared to take my last flight home and eventually make it back. My chest remains tight as I walk into my house full of mourning family. 24 hours of travel has taken it out of me but I know now is not the time to collapse in a heap on the floor!

The weekend passes, people in and people out. I never fully realized how busy life gets after a loved one passes. Monday hits. My chest has continued to get tighter. If I sit I can’t breathe. I know my oxygen hasn’t been at 100% for a few days now. If it’s my asthma I’ve pushed it to the limit many a times. “Chi, it’s not just your body right now”, I remind myself firmly. Against everything in me, pushing aside my life-long hospital fear, which I’ve realized will probably never go away, Ryan takes me to the hospital. My oxygen is low and a slight wheeze has started. Oxygen, breathing treatments, steroids… I know the drill. The ER is rammajammed crazy. People everywhere. All I want to do is GET OUT and GO HOME. But I know the little boy growing inside of me is more important than anything else now. Of course this had to happen. Because life isn’t quite crazy enough. The doctor comes in after multiple breathing treatments and allows me to take the oxygen off. Within 5 minutes it drops into the low 80s and immediate fear strikes. Oh no. Please don’t let this happen again. Has my body just been under too much stress? Has it had enough? I reason with myself… “My asthma has flared up so many times and can last a few days. Do not go to worst case scenario right now. Ur fine. It’ll stabilize.” Thankfully it did. After 7 hours of breathing treatments, oxygen, steroids and whatever else, my levels stabilized enough and I was able to go home. For some reason unsettled feelings linger, but I know I don’t have time to think them through right now… I find another box, stuff them away and balance it on the shelf next to the other boxes. The shelf wobbles, but continues to hold. 

The memorial service the following week was beautiful. Karl, a Master Chief in the Navy, 30 years of service, was honored, remembered and celebrated. Such a beautiful, kind and incredibly generous soul. Me and him had such a special connection together. I will miss him forever. Within a few days the last remaining people staying at our house leave and suddenly for the first time in weeks, it’s quiet. 

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m on my way to physical therapy. My phone rings. It’s one of my OB’s. I have a team of them, not just one. “Hey Chi, it’s Dr Webber. After your asthma attack last week I decided to really look into your file and ended up spending 3 1/2 hours reading every single note on what happened to you last year. I brought it into our team meeting this morning and we spoke about you for over an hour and unfortunately we have decided you’re actually too high risk and you can no longer be on our service. We’re referring you to Maternal Fetal Medicine and that means you also won’t be able to deliver your baby at our hospital as they are linked to Norfolk General.” The words continue to come out of her mouth but somewhere during the conversation my brain shut down and panic starts setting in. I’m 30 weeks pregnant. They’ve known about my case for 27 weeks and it was brought up multiple times in the first month of my pregnancy. I have a hard time trusting people, especially medical people, and when I found an all-female team linked to the hospital who saved my life I knew this was the right team to be under. It’s taken most of my pregnancy to finally start feeling comfortable with them. I saw Maternal Fetal Medicine in my first month of pregnancy, it was an awful experience, horrendous appointment, horrible little man doctor who once again told me I was too complicated and they didn’t know what to do with me so just told me to stay under my current OB team. On top of that, Norfolk General was the very hospital who declined my transfer request TWICE last year, because my case was too complicated and they didn’t know how to handle it. I was absolutely NOT transferring to MFM or delivering at a hospital who knows nothing about me or about how to handle what happened last year IF that was to happen again. The conversation with my OB finishes and I sit in the car staring out the window. I can’t take any more. I’m not sure what a mental breakdown feels like, but I’m pretty sure I’m not too far off. The OB told me to still come to my Thursday appointment so there wouldn’t be a lapse of care while my case was being transferred. “Breathe Chi. We’ll figure it out.” I scramble to find another box, stuff it all in and push it onto the end of the shelf. 

That night I call my person who is prepped and ready to go into major brain surgery early the following morning. I don’t sleep much. My brain is full. Waking up early the next day I start praying. “Please let everything go fine. Please don’t let her die. Please don’t let anything go wrong.” Five hours feel like an absolute eternity. It takes longer than expected. I sit in my car waiting for news. Tears start to fall. Thoughts start moving to worst case scenario. A text comes through: “She’s alive. Surgeons got what they needed to get. She’ll be in recovery for a few hours before moving to the ICU.” I breathe. Thank. You. God. 

I feel fragile as I walk into my OB practice. I just need to be able to address my concerns, ask some questions and find some reassurance that everything will be ok. There’s one more OB on the team I haven’t met yet. She’s my provider for today’s appointment. She walks in rushed and blurts out a whole spiel on why it’s good I’m being transferred. I wait a moment for her to stop talking and attempt to say something. She cuts me off. I feel my emotions building. Stay calm, stay calm. I try to ask a question, she cuts me off again. She continues, disrespectful, no empathy, barely looks at me, just spewing words. I finally look at her and say “I’m not delivering at Norfolk and I’m not transferring to MFM.” She turns around and finally looks at me… “We can stand here all day talking about it and going round in circles but we’re not keeping you on our service.” I get up, look at her, sarcastically thank her for her time, support and empathy and storm out of my appointment. 

I run out of the building and find my car. I slam the door shut and grip the steering wheel as I stare up at the sky through the window. Tears fall heavy. Crying loud, uncontrollable. I try and find my phone to call my person and realize I can’t. She’s in the ICU completely sedated. I cry harder. And suddenly out of nowhere the shelf comes crashing down. The boxes split open and every emotion comes spilling out. Karl’s death, my sister, my family being thousands of miles away, my person lying in the ICU, this baby. THIS BABY. How am I going to deliver this baby without a plan, without a team. I’d kept my fear of delivery at bay for 7 months and suddenly all the fear hits. What if my body does attack itself again during delivery? What if I can’t keep him safe? What if my asthma keeps coming back. I can’t stop the tears. I can’t stop the fear. The thought of starting again with a different OB team, a team with a bunch of men on it, any one of them could be on call the night I go into labor. The thought of walking into a hospital I’ve never even been to. For a moment I struggle to keep myself grounded. I feel the stress in my body. Painful cramps all over my abdomen. My chest tight. I haven’t felt this alone in a very long time. I’m too complicated. No one knows what to do with me. A desperate craving comes over me to feel safe. To have a plan. For someone to tell me what to do. How to safely deliver this baby in just 8 weeks time. I’m suddenly incredibly aware that my mental health in all of this is as important as my physical health to actually keep this baby and myself safe. 

As I sit on the couch writing this blog, baby boy hasn’t stopped moving, kicking or punching. Every now and again I have to gently push him out from under my ribs or off my bladder! I smile as he reminds me every day of the miracle he is. The rocks have been flying, life has been relentless, I feel utterly overwhelmed with everything going on right now, but this miracle stares back at me. There is a full baby underneath my skin. Moving and growing! I place my hands on my belly and feel his kicks, his little head, I watch my belly move in the craziest of ways as he flips and turns over attempting to find more space! Most of the time there’s not much you can really control in this life, but I can control what I focus my gaze on. Do I focus it on the chaos surrounding me? The loss? The hurt? The things I can’t control? The things I fear? The things I’m terrified of? People who have let me down? No. If I focus on those things I’ll drown. Instead I look at my unborn baby and remind myself of the miracle that’s not just in front of me, but literally inside of me. I remember God’s promises and all the good. I remind myself that the storms will come, but they won’t last. The rocks that hit hard will hurt. But the pain will fade. And even though, with just weeks to go, I have no plan and no OB team and I’m scared and painfully aware how unpredictable my body is and this birth might be, I’m not alone. I’m so far from being alone. And somehow it will work out. 

Our entire lives consist of storms, sunny days, rain, clouds, rocks, tornadoes and more storms. There are moments of pure joy, and many moments of pain. Seasons of hard and lonely, feelings of being out of control and utterly overwhelmed. Periods of brokenness, betrayal and stretches of attempting to survive, living purely in survival mode. But I think we can all look back and also see so much beauty showered throughout. How can we appreciate the light, if we haven’t also experienced the darkness? I know there is so much goodness out there. And even though life has felt relentless and I’m completely exhausted and depleted, the good will always override the bad and the light will always overcome the dark.