You. Are. Loved.

Two weeks ago, my world turned upside down.

Here is our story. 

Grant Benjamin Gahan was born on Nov. 12 at 4:46 p.m. after a spontaneous visit to my doctor's office simply to check his heartbeat. I hadn't felt him move for close to 24 hours, so I went in for a stress test. I heard his precious little heartbeat and figured I was on my way back to teaching A Tale of Two Cities, but my doctor suggested we do another ultrasound in order to take another look. I wasn't prepared when she took one look at the screen and told me she was sending me straight to labor and delivery; my amniotic fluid was dangerously low and the baby wasn't moving. I was only 37.5 weeks along. My pregnancy had been smooth sailing up until that point--lots of healthy ultrasounds and test results, no concerns, no red flags, no reasons to think he would come early.

Clay raced over to the hospital in time to learn the nurses' concern about our boy's heartbeat. Apparently I was already experiencing small contractions (I hadn't felt them because of the lack of fluid), and each time I had a contraction, our son's heart rate dipped. I could feel my control slipping away even more, knowing that they were about to recommend a c-section. I had told Dr. Thomas that I was open and flexible with all parts of my "birth plan," but my one priority was to avoid a c-section. I didn't have one with Will, and I really wanted to experience labor and delivery again. I had heard that this OB practice and hospital can prematurely direct women to c-sections, so I was prepared to fight for this one goal, but it wasn't to be. "He won't tolerate labor, Sara. We haven't even started pitocin yet. I don't want to get us into a situation when it's an emergency."

I cried for the first time that day. I was in shock about the timing and the delivery of our little one, but our main goal was for Baby G to be healthy, so there didn't seem to be another option. Within 30 minutes, I was in the OR getting a spinal and preparing to meet our second son.

As Clay and I held hands through yet another new experience in our marriage, we suddenly got really excited. This was happening. 9 months of anticipating and dreaming about our little family was about to transition into reality--beautiful, chaotic, loving reality. 

Clay whispered in my ear, "Grant. I think his name should be Grant." We had been discussing names for 9 months but hadn't settled on one. Grant had been one of my favorites because it often starts prayers: "Grant us strength. Grant us wisdom. Grant us courage." Benjamin had been one of Clay's favorites, inspired by the Biblical Jacob's last son. Grant Benjamin suddenly felt right to both of us. We smiled at each other in the OR, we squeezed hands, we were ready to meet him.

And then Grant Benjamin cried. The most beautiful cry. I didn't hear Will cry until 4 hours after his birth because he wasn't breathing upon arrival (what is it with me and awesome pregnancies but traumatic deliveries?), so hearing Grant's cry made me tear up all over again--this time with joy. He's here and he's healthy. It wasn't how we expected his arrival to unfold, but in the end, we were all okay. Our Team Gahan family of four had begun. We felt so, so blessed.

I will always be grateful for the precious quiet time we had with Grant right after his arrival. For 90 minutes, Clay and I held Grant in a recovery room. As I look back, I think about that time being one of great peace and understanding before everything changed.

We all headed upstairs to the Mother/Baby unit, where the nurses dropped Grant off in the nursery, promising me they would bring him back after a quick bath and check-up. Clay and I went to room 319 to exhale and celebrate with my parents. 

An hour went by. Then another. Then another. Mom and Dad left. Clay ran home to let Camden out and grab a bowl of cereal. I started texting friends our sweet news. 

And then a woman walked into my room and my heart froze. Something was wrong. I knew it. 

"Is your husband here?" she asked.

"No. He stepped out for a minute. He'll be right back."

She pulled up a chair next to my bed. I looked at her and braced myself. 

"We aren't totally sure, but your son has several markers that lead us to believe he might have Down Syndrome."

And that is when my life changed. 

She continued talking and talking, but I remember not wanting to hear it. All I could do was FEEL. My legs were still numb from the c-section, but my chest was bursting with pain. I am not proud to admit it, but the grief I experienced at that moment was unbearable. Just that morning I had been pregnant, my baby had been healthy, and I had been joyfully joking with my students that Baby G was going to "rock my world." After one surprising turn of events after another, I found myself broken. My world was rocked and I didn't want any part of it. I wanted to disappear into the hospital bed sheets, into Clay's arms, into my parents' love and then wake up realizing it had all been a dream.

I called my parents, and they rushed back to the hospital; I would come to rely on them more than ever. Clay returned and somehow I broke the news to him. Our incredible pediatrician came to the hospital at 10:30 that evening to check on Grant and be with us as we tried to understand if the sudden diagnosis was true. Everyone told us that the echocardiogram performed that evening would be telling; 50% of babies born with Down Syndrome have heart defects. At 12:30 that night, the same nurse practitioner that delivered the diagnosis to me earlier told us that Grant has a small VSD (ventricular septal defect), a PDA (patent ductus arteriosus), and a PFO (patent foramen ovale). It was all too much to bear. As I laid in bed that night, unable to sleep, my mind raced. How did we not know? How will this affect Will? How will this affect our marriage?What other medical issues are we dealing with? Will I have to quit my job? Will Grant be able to go to school? What will his life look like? Why us? I came to hate the quiet of the nights.

As soon as the morning light arrived, Clay and I held hands and made our way down to the NICU to see our son. Room #1 became our second home those nine days. Usually in a daze, Clay and I would check in with Grant's nurse; meet with neonatologists, a cardiologist, and a geneticist; and eventually get to hold him, wires and all. Our life's rhythm was punctuated by beeping machines and platelet count levels. The director of Down Syndrome of Louisville came to visit. We received three copies of Raising a Baby with Down Syndrome. The chromosome test confirmed the diagnosis. In the midst of all of this, we were mostly numb and still in shock. This was so different from what we expected, and while the nurses and specialists were sensitive, at times I couldn't believe what they were telling us. My pregnancy had been a textbook case; every visit, I made sure to ask if anything looked wrong. "He looks perfect, Sara," was the constant refrain. Everyone around us seemed to be having healthy babies. I was 32 when we conceived, and nothing on the ultrasounds or tests came back even slightly abnormal. And yet here we were. The landscape that we were used to seeing suddenly and radically changed.

I grieved the loss of the baby we expected would join our family. I felt guilty and responsible and questioned every step of my pregnancy. I worried about Grant's future and our future and Will's future. I felt I had let every one down without meaning to or knowing it or understanding why. I was and still am overwhelmed with emotion. I cried more in that darn NICU room than I have at any other time in my life. I was broken, lost, despairing, and scared. I wanted my old life back.

Our only way of coping seemed to be visiting Grant. When we were with him, all of the daunting information about the diagnosis faded a bit; he was first and foremost our son, and we found him utterly beautiful. I also longed to be with Will, to go home and play Legos with him and regain the beautiful rhythm of our family that I had taken for granted just days before. In many ways, Will was my saving grace.

I also fell even more in love with Clay.  I'll never forget confessing my love for Clay to his parents in that NICU room; in one of many teary breakdowns, I told them that their son had made my life, that he was such a good man, that I would work hard to give their son and our family a happy life. Clay was so immediately loving, so immediately accepting of Grant. I will never forget when Clay looked at me and said, "Grant has feelings. He needs us. He is hurting now, too." That was a turning point for me. I am his mama. Clay is his daddy. He is our son. And Down Syndrome doesn't change that. It changes some things, but it certainly doesn't change that.

But in general, the days after Grant's birth were very, very difficult.

In the midst of all the pain, though, something else was happening:  We were being loved. FIERCELY and OVERWHELMINGLY LOVED.  Loved harder and more than I have ever known. 

It started with my parents who didn't leave our sides and managed communication with everyone we didn't have the strength to reach out to on our own. My sister flew in from San Francisco on a moment's notice so she could hold me as I wept in my hospital bed. Clay's parents flew in from Texas so they could love on sweet Grant (and me and Clay). Emails poured in from friends both old and new, close and casual. My college roommates group texted me constantly, offering words of encouragement for me and Clay and words of strength and love for Grant. Colleagues stepped up to help both of us cover our classes and responsibilities. My mama's incredible circle of friends kicked into immediate action and overwhelmed us with food and gifts and cards. Three meal trains were set up. One of my advisees videotaped himself playing a song on the piano that helped him through challenging times. Three churches delivered prayer shawls, and ministers came to comfort us. I spoke with two wonderful mamas who have children with Down Syndrome, and they both reassured me that life would be full of challenges, yes, but also great joys. And the texts, oh the texts, from friends who refused to give up on us despite the fact that we usually didn't text back, didn't know what to say, didn't really know what life looked like for us anymore. They kept texting, they kept writing, they kept sending us words of encouragement and hope even when they were met with radio silence. But I read every one--and I can easily say that those words are what got me through the really difficult minutes. They still do. I have saved every one.

We were overwhelmed by the unknown. But we were also overwhelmed by the known: love wins. Every time. LOVE WINS.


And I started to feel that if this many people could show up and love love love us this powerfully and selflessly and genuinely and KINDLY, then maybe just maybe our little family, surrounded and supported by this incredible village, could do this. I had a choice: I could stay sad and angry and focused on the picture of the family I expected to have, or I could focus on the joy that permeated my life before Grant and certainly would increase because of him. I needed to stop wondering why or how this happened and instead start loving the heck out of my son.  He is here, he is ours, and he is LOVED. While this hospital may have been a place of sorrow for us, Clay and I were determined that our home would be full of happiness and love. Grant deserves that. Our son Will deserves that. We deserve that. Our lives were not over. A new life just might be beginning.

We left the NICU on Thursday, November 21, nine days after Grant's birth. We had to procure a special car bed since he couldn't maintain his oxygen levels in a standard car seat, but I would have driven to Alaska to get it as long as it meant bringing Grant home. I am forever indebted to the heavenly NICU nurses who so lovingly cared for Grant (and us), but I was ready to break free of Room 1 and be together as a family. I was especially ready to be with Will, my first beautiful son. As we packed up the pictures and signs that my sister and mom had brought to decorate the room (God bless them), the petite, all-business neonatologist walked in. My heart sank. She always delivered bad news. Once again, I braced myself. We were so close to leaving. She looked at me and Clay and, for the first time, she smiled.

"I always hope that our babies go home to good families. You guys are a good family. I know this has been hard, but you will be fine. You can do this. Grant is lucky to be in your family."

And for the last time in that darn NICU, holding my fragile son in my arms and standing next to the man I love more today than ever before, I cried. It was the first time she had softened, and it gave me a glimpse of the grace I pray we experience as we travel this unfamiliar road. And she was right: our family is amazing. Clay, Will, Grant, and I are beyond blessed to have parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends who are considered family surrounding us as we take baby steps forward. I know it isn't going to be easy, and there is certainly a lot to learn about Grant and what he will need to thrive as he grows into the person he is meant to be, but at least we know where to start: by loving him. 

Then we came home to this guy:

As Will laid eyes on his baby brother for the first time, his sense of pride inspired me yet again.

I love Will with every ounce of my being.

I love Clay with every ounce of my being.

And Baby Grant, you better believe I love you with every ounce of my being too.

How blessed am I to be so in love with these men?

These are my greatest gifts.

I am going to live my life focused on this love.

Yup. Love wins.

It's been two weeks now, and I still struggle. I know I will for awhile. I am not necessarily proud of that fact, but I am letting myself feel and heal my way through this. But thanks to you all, I know that life is good and beautiful and lovely. It's full of possibilities.

And when you open your heart to others, it's full of life-changing, soul-comforting, awe-inspiring
LOVE. 

Thank you for opening your hearts to us. Thank you for loving our little family through this. Thank you for your words, your prayers, your hugs, your kindness, your friendship. Thank you for not giving up on us. And thank you for showing us, over and over again, that love is more powerful than anything.

Our little family is ready to love you back.

Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.