Baby S,
Today we celebrate your first birthday. A milestone that I wasn’t certain we’d get to celebrate. Your first year hasn’t been an easy one, to say the least. But sitting here today, watching you play, babble, and laugh, is nothing short of a miracle.
We first met you when you were about five weeks old. I still remember the day you showed up at our gate, and I never could have imagined the journey the two of us would go on over the next year. You were tiny and frail and weren’t even able to drink out of a bottle. We fed you milk via a syringe, you soon learned how to drink from a bottle, and we hoped you had gotten over the hump with your medical difficulties.
About a month later I was on vacation in Florida. You’d had a few more issues pop up. Your heart rate and respiratory rate were too fast. I was away and the visiting nurse decided to take you to the hospital, it seemed like the right thing to do. I returned home to Haiti and visited you in the hospital several times. There were never any answers. You were loosing a significant amount of weight, now running a persistent fever, and developed a cough. I felt certain that if we left you there, you would surely die. Hospitals in Haiti aren’t the same as in the States. There were too many sick kids and not enough staff to meet their needs. So I took you out of the hospital and brought you back to COTP, where I thought we could give you a fighting chance.
We quickly discovered that nobody had ever looked at your chest x-ray from the hospital. You had tuberculosis. You were really, really sick. I got you started on TB treatment right away. I placed a feeding tube because you were too weak and breathing too fast to drink anything by mouth. I put you on oxygen to support your breathing, but you were still working much, much too hard. My roommate Amy and I took turns with you. Somebody had to be beside you 24/7. I’ve heard parents talk about how they’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and have to check on their baby to make sure he’s still breathing. That fear was very real to Amy and I. Anytime I’d find myself starting to fall asleep I’d pray, just keep her breathing, please keep her breathing, Lord.
After about ten days of this, it was clear that oxygen alone wasn’t going to be enough to support your breathing. Your breathing was becoming progressively more labored and you were getting weaker. You were going to need a ventilator to give you more time for your little body to fight the infection, but there aren’t any in Northern Haiti. So I reached out to my friends at Bernard Mevs Hospital down in Port Au Prince, and then began the task of figuring out how to get you there. Haiti Air Ambulance made three attempts to send their helicopter to fly you down to Port Au Prince, but each time the cloud cover was too much and they had to turn around. We were running out of time, so we decided to take you by ground and quickly put a plan together. Joel and I threw some supplies in the Jeep, including our only tank of oxygen, and began the trek over the mountains to get you to the hospital that could help you.
So began what would become a very memorable jeep ride. Somewhere around the top of the mountain range, the jeep overheated and did a lot of other mechanical things I didn’t fully understand, but knew were very bad. We weren’t sure how long it would keep moving or if we’d make it to Port Au Prince. With your oxygen supply dwindling, we kept limping along, until on the outskirts of Port Au Prince, just as my tank of oxygen ran out, we were met by an ambulance that drove you and I the rest of the way to the hospital. It was one of the many times God intervened in a miraculous way to provide just what you needed, when you needed it most.
This began a six week hospital stay that was a roller coaster of ups and downs. You were placed on CPAP, but quickly tired out and needed to be placed on a ventilator. So began the cycle, they’d put you on the ventilator and you’d be stable for a day or two, then the breathing tube would accidentally come out, you’d be on CPAP for a day or so, and then you’d tire out and need the ventilator to help you breath again. I lost count of how many times I stood beside your bed as the team worked to intubate you (put in your breathing tube) as your numbers were falling. I’d stand at the foot of your bed, or when I could get close enough, hold onto your hand or foot while they worked on you. It was gut wrenching to watch. Sometimes over the course of that six weeks, I’d be home at COTP and I’d get a phone call in the middle of the night that this was what was going on. One time the phone call was that you had arrested and they had to do CPR, but had gotten you back. “We’re doing everything we can,” they said, “but you should come.” At the time I wasn’t sure which was worse, standing by your beside wondering if I was about to watch you die, or being on the other side of the country, waiting for the text or phone call to tell me if the intubation had been successful and you were still alive. I ended up deciding it was the latter, because I think really my greatest fear, even more than you dying, was you dying alone in a hospital on the other side of the country, without your grandmother or I being there to hold you. That thought was unbearable.
There was so little I could do for you while you were on the ventilator. You were bound to the bed by all the tubes and wires. A little lotion or a clean blanket was about all I could do. I’d also play music for you from my phone. I had a short playlist of worship songs and Good Good Father and It Is Well always seemed to calm you when you were agitated, and to slow your heart rate.
That was such a trying time. I didn’t understand why you had to be so sick or why you had to struggle so much. I had been fighting so hard to keep you alive. That’s when God brought me a verse that He had given me time and time again since moving to Haiti, “The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still”, Exodus 14:14. I cried out to God and prayed that night and told Him that I trusted Him. Even if the outcome wasn’t what *I* wanted it to be, I trusted Him, and His plan for your life. That didn’t instantly make things better. It was still terribly hard watching how sick you were. But there was a new peace in my heart that things were somehow going to be ok. I knew I could trust God for that.
Medically, things didn’t seem to be improving. Multiple times you came off the ventilator, only to have to be put back on it, when your lungs were too weak to keep breathing on their own. In a country with such limited resources, we had to start asking some difficult questions. With a very limited number of ventilators available, how long should we keep you on one, if it didn’t appear that you were getting better? Perhaps your lungs had been too damaged to overcome the infection. It was time to have some tough conversations. The doctors asked me to come back to Port Au Prince so we could discuss our goals in your care. As much as I wanted you to get better, I also didn’t want to see you suffering and in pain. So I prepared to head back to Port Au Prince but all the while I, along with countless others, continued to pray for your health and your healing.
By the time I got back to the hospital you had self extubated again (the breathing tube had come out again). But this time was different. You were still working to breath, but not struggling nearly as much as you had in the past. You were holding your own on CPAP, and soon you were downgraded to just a regular oxygen cannula in your nose. You started drinking bottles. You were making incredible progress! All the doctors and nurses kept saying, “this baby is very strong!”
So against all the odds, you continued to get better and were discharged from the hospital. I flew you back to Cap Haitien and you returned to your home at COTP. All of our prayers had been answered. Yet, we still had some work to do. At five months old, you weighed just over five pounds. It had taken everything within you to battle the tuberculosis, and we still had a lot of work to do to get you healthier and stronger. I wish I could say it was smooth sailing from there. But the past seven months haven’t been easy either. It took awhile for your breathing to improve, you needed frequent breathing treatments and we've juggled fifteen medications a day to keep you healthy. Your nutrition has been a constant struggle. I tried everything and anything to get enough calories into you by mouth, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed a feeding tube. It was a struggle to get every ounce of weight onto you. After four months of NG tubes (a temporary feeding tube inserted through your nose into your stomach) it was clear that you needed a better solution.
So a few weeks ago you, me, a nanny, and another child, P, from COTP flew down to Port Au Prince and then headed to a surgical center out in a town called Croix de Boquets. I had been in touch with them and they had agreed to place a G-tube for you and the other little boy. This was a simple outpatient procedure. Honestly what I was most worried about was how you were going to be able to sleep after surgery, since you only liked to sleep on your belly. In my mind that was the biggest challenge that was ahead of us.
Due to some travel delays the team didn’t arrive until later than expected. P went into surgery first. After he was finished and in the recovery room it was your turn. Around midnight I walked you back to the operating room, gave you a kiss, and handed you over to the surgery team. I went right around the corner to the recovery room to sit with P. They were preparing your bed right beside him. It was a quick procedure and you should be done in no time. P was getting sick and throwing up, so we were trying to get him some medication and to get him situated, so honestly your actual surgery flew by. Before I knew it you were done and they were carrying you into the recovery room. They said you had done great and I was so relieved that you and P were both done. But just moments later, all hell broke loose.
You weren’t breathing. Someone checked for a pulse and someone else started chest compressions. They yelled for an ambu bag and for epi. My heart was racing. This could not be happening! After everything you had been through in the past eleven months, how could this be happening? This was a simple procedure. It was not supposed to end like this. I couldn’t loose you now. I called one of our other staff members, Carla, and asked her to pray.
I’m still not sure how long that lasted, because to me it felt like an eternity. But they reassured me that your heart was beating again. You were breathing, though they still had to give you some added support for awhile. It was 1:30 in the morning and I wanted nothing more than for you to wake up, so I could know you were ok, that there hadn’t been any neurologic damage. But of course after the events of the day, anesthesia, and your resuscitation, you weren’t going to wake up anytime soon.
Since I couldn’t sleep, I prayed. I sat at the foot of your bed and prayed that you’d wake up and scream to open up your lungs. I prayed and I waited. Around 5:30 in the morning you started to wake up. You were in pain and you were screaming. You were still connected to the monitor and had a lot of tubes and wires, so there was no way for me to hold you. I laid as close as I could to you and pulled out my phone to see if some music would help to calm you. I held it beside your ear as once again Good Good Father played. You instantly stopped crying, looked at me, gave me a little grin, and I knew you were ok. “Oh, I’ve heard a thousand stories of what they think you’re like, but I’ve heard the tender whispers of love in the dead of night, and you tell me that you’re pleased, and that I’m never alone.” Those words were true that night, as they had been so many other nights before.
We had several more bumps in the road with little P and some post-op complications that he had. But five days later, I was able to bring both of you home to COTP. We continued the recovery process here. You’re doing great and you’d never know how close we came to loosing you once again that night.
You have certainly had a lot of medical difficulties and obstacles to overcome in your first year of life, but that is by no means your whole story. There are so many sweet memories from the first year of your life. When you smiled for the first time after months of being sick, and how you now giggle with your whole body when you’re tickled. Taking your first trip to the beach and how much you love the water. How much you love books and music, especially your bedtime story each night, you stare at the pictures so intently. I know you don't think it's so funny, but we also can't help but laugh when you make your pout face. You are so overly dramatic when you stick out that lower lip that we really have a hard time taking you seriously.
You are also the most strong willed baby I have ever met. Sometimes your stubbornness can feel exasperating. But I know that tenacious spirit is also part of the reason you kept fighting and are still here today.
Seeing you through this past year has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but also the most rewarding. There have been many tears, many sleepless nights, and many struggles, but you, S, are worth it all. Today on your first birthday, I pray for you as I do every day. I pray for your health and your future, for your forever family, and that you would learn to trust and to rest in God, just as He taught me to do through you. You have been loved and prayed for by so many people this past year. I'm pretty sure there’s a lot more to your story and can’t wait to see what God does through your little life.
Happy first birthday, baby girl! Here’s to many, many more!
Children of the Promise has given permission for the posting of the photos on this site. Photos taken of the children in the care of Children of the Promise are not to be posted publicly without explicit permission given by Children of the Promise.
Keven lived with us at COTP for a little over two years. He
was abandoned at a local hospital and came to live at COTP a
little while before his second birthday. Keven wasn’t your
“typical” little boy. He wasn’t able to walk or talk like the
other kids in his home. He had a lot of feeding issues. He was
sick a lot. He needed a lot of therapy. While it might have
been easy to see all the things Keven couldn’t do, there was
plenty that he could do. He communicated in his own way,
through his smiles, through the way he’d wave his hands and
feet in the air. He let us know what he did and did not like.
Somehow Keven managed to prove us wrong again. He
showed some baby steps of improvement and Tori put
together the most memorable fourth birthday party for
him. What a blessing that was, to get to celebrate this
little guy!
