I remember the morning of my 18th week of pregnancy, something felt terribly wrong. Waking up, I rushed to the bathroom only to discover I was bleeding. I immediately called out to my husband, tears filling my eyes. I was sure, deep in my heart, that we were losing our baby.
The flood of emotions was overwhelming. After talking to the doctor on call, I was advised to head to the ER if the bleeding continued. I was scared beyond measure, but in the back of my mind, a small hope lingered. Maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.
By mid-morning, we found ourselves at the ER. After an ultrasound that felt like an eternity, the doctor told us our baby was doing fine and that I was experiencing a “threatened miscarriage.” I had no idea what that meant, and while I was relieved, something still felt off. The doctor assured me it was nothing serious but advised me to follow up with my OBGYN.
The following day, I spoke to my doctor, and after another ultrasound, I learned I had a subchorionic hemorrhage—essentially a blood clot near the placenta. The doctor reassured me that such clots often resolve on their own, and that everything looked good with the baby. But over the next weeks, the bleeding didn’t stop. In fact, it got worse.
Each day felt like an emotional roller coaster. I was on bed rest for a while, hoping and praying the blood clots would resolve. Each night, I would wake up to rush to the bathroom, terrified that something was wrong. Despite the frequent bleeding, the baby’s ultrasounds continued to show that everything seemed okay, though the doctors were cautious. The idea that I might lose the baby, or that something could be seriously wrong, loomed over me every single day.
At 24 weeks, the bleeding was still ongoing. I began to feel a little more hopeful, thinking that if I could make it to this critical point in the pregnancy, my baby might survive if born prematurely. But the emotional strain and uncertainty were taking their toll.
We were doing everything we could, but it felt like there was nothing to be done about the bleeding. I made the decision to return to work, thinking it might help me feel more normal. But the stress and anxiety still haunted me.
Then came the day that everything changed. After visiting my sister’s house and heading to our mom’s for book club, I felt that familiar feeling of something being wrong. I rushed to the bathroom and passed a clot—one far too large for comfort. I knew this time it was serious. I called my husband repeatedly, feeling a sick pit in my stomach. When he answered, I told him what had happened. I was scared, I was alone, and I wasn’t sure if our baby was going to make it. We rushed to the hospital.
At the hospital, I was admitted to the Labor and Delivery unit. The bleeding worsened, and I started experiencing contractions every couple of minutes. The nurses administered medicine to try to stop the contractions, but the bleeding didn’t stop. My heart sank as they told me I needed to be transferred to a hospital with a NICU in case the baby came early
I was only 23 weeks and 5 days pregnant. The thought of delivering a baby this early was terrifying. But as my ambulance ride began, a sense of calm took over. I was surrounded by compassionate healthcare professionals who helped me remain focused on getting to the right hospital.
The ride to the new hospital was agonizingly slow. Each speed bump triggered more bleeding, and with every bump, my fear deepened. At one point, the nurse checked for a fetal heart rate, and the sound of our baby’s strong heartbeat was a small but miraculous comfort. We arrived at the NICU-equipped hospital, and I was immediately hooked up to monitors. The doctors began to closely monitor the baby and me, and it seemed like every minute was another step in a constant battle for survival.
In those moments, as my anxiety and fear peaked, all I could do was pray. I kept telling myself that no matter what happened, we would take it one step at a time, and God would guide us through. The medical team continued to reassure us, but I knew the next few hours, days, and weeks were going to be critical.
Throughout the following days, the doctors and nurses worked tirelessly to ensure our baby stayed stable. The bleeding subsided, but my body was still under immense stress. Every decision felt like life or death. The thought that I could lose my baby at any moment was crushing, but I kept reminding myself that we had already fought so hard to get to this point.
Finally, at 25 weeks, I went into labor and was rushed into the operating room for an emergency C-section. The doctors had warned me that our baby’s chances of survival were still very slim. I was terrified. But at 2:15 a.m., after an exhausting few hours of waiting, we welcomed our beautiful baby boy into the world.
He weighed just 1 pound 12 ounces and was so fragile. The moment I saw him, my heart ached, but at the same time, I was filled with love. He was alive. I hadn’t expected that. He wasn’t supposed to survive. But he did. The doctors immediately whisked him away to the NICU, and the waiting game began again. My mind was in a haze, but one thing I knew for sure: we were going to fight for him every single day.
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