28 Weeks

Today I would have been 28 weeks pregnant: the point at which the survival rate for premature babies jumps to 90%. Even just 18 hours before Weston was born, we had a lot of hope that we would make it to 28 weeks. Just like his death, things went downhill in utero very quickly. But that is a story for another day.

The survival rate for preemies varies, depending on who you talk to. I listened closest to my very experienced and very good perinatologist, Dr. G, who told me the day before Weston was born (24 weeks on the dot) that he had a 60-70% survival rate if born at that time. Weeks 24 to 28 are THE most important weeks of gestational development. That's when the lungs mature, and breathing is obviously the most important things once babies are delivered, so that's the reason for the huge jump in survival rates.

So, even at 24 weeks, the odds were in Weston's favor to survive. When I got the steroid shots enough time before his birth to help his lungs mature, the odds were in his favor. When he went ten days without a brain bleed, the odds were in his favor. When he went two weeks without any major problems (the honeymoon period, they call it, which is usually a lot shorter with 24-weekers), the odds were in his favor. I would have thought that, with the hundreds of people praying and the thousands of prayers that were said, the odds were in his favor then too. After he died, so many people were shocked to hear the news: although the previous week had been rough, there had been no talk of him dying from anyone. Everyone at the NICU expressed optimism, we were optimistic, and we continued to pass that optimism on to others.

I went through three months of complicated pregnancy, one month in the hospital, one scary c-section birth, and three weeks in the NICU with a micro-preemie without asking, "Why me?" I knew that we could survive all that, because having Weston in our family would be worth every minute of the struggle, and the "why" didn't seem to matter then.

But the "why" is really starting to matter now. Why did God choose us to go through this and then take our baby away from us? In my heart of hearts, I have to believe there is a reason, but I don't think I will know it while I am still on this earth. I can't imagine ANYTHING being worth losing my son. Even if his existence forever changes people for the better, I don't care. I would rather have him here than have other people's lives (even mine) changed. Sorry.

So, in addition to "why," I'm playing the "what-if" game. What if I were still pregnant, or giving birth, today? It would have meant another four weeks in the hospital and struggle for my family, but we would have gladly done it. It could have been the difference between Weston's death and his near-definite survival.

Life, and time, is moving on around me, despite my wish that it wouldn't. It is August now. I turned the wall calendar over the other day (yes, I still use a wall calendar!), and now I can't see Weston's date of birth or date of death on the calendar. Caroline will turn three this month, and I will turn 35 eight days later. But there is nothing to celebrate about time moving on without my son here.