8 years ago, in the early morning hours of April 25, 2006, my life changed irrevocably with the words, "There's nothing more we can do." I had watched them working on my son, praying for a miracle that I believed would come. Jerry understood before I did, and tears began to stream down his face. I grabbed his hand and shook my head. I started to shake uncontrollably. I said, "No. Not yet. Hold on." I don't know who I was talking to. Jerry? Myself? My son? The God that I believed was just and good up until that defining moment? It doesn't matter because no one could save him.
Statistics vary, but the survival rate for 27 weekers that are 2 weeks old is something like 95%. We are the 5%. We are the worst-case scenario. The truth is I will never truly know how many miracles I have been given in my life. My two beautiful living, breathing children. My husband. But beyond that--I'll never know how many car accidents were averted by delaying us for five minutes. How many potential hazards in our bodies have healed themselves. How many times God has intervened on our behalves. I believe in miracles, and I know I've been given at least a few in my life so far. Hopefully, I will live to see a few more.
Today, I can't help but dwell on the miracle we didn't get. Today, the life we should have had plays on an endless reel in my head. There is no stopping it. After 8 years I don't even try to stop it anymore.
Matthew...Your family loves you and we think of you always.