Shepard's Story
Tuesday May 23, 2023
I woke up suddenly and looked at the clock. 5:00 am. The pain was still there in my upper right side, gently prodding me just below my ribs like an air bubble that wouldn’t pop. I noticed it for the first time the night before.
“Its’s just a foot. I know it’s just a foot.”
I was 38 weeks pregnant with my first baby, gender still unknown. I tried rolling over and going back to sleep when Reginas voice whispered in my ears: “Pay attention if you have any of these symptoms: headache, blurred vision, or upper right quadrant pain.”
I didn’t want to bother her with a text this early, especially when I was certain it was just a foot jamming into my ribs and not an actual sign of preeclampsia. Sure, I had already clocked two higher-than-usual blood pressure readings in previous weeks, but all my bloodwork came back normal. I was fine.
I rolled over again, trying to shake off the worry and go back to sleep. And then, another voice.
Still.
Small.
“If it’s really a foot, why don’t you let her make that call? She’s a good midwife. She won’t mind the early text.”
That was the first miracle.
Three hours later I was in my midwife’s office with three blood pressure readings so high, she ordered us to go straight to the hospital.
I stared at her blankly, in disbelief, tears welling up in my eyes.
“I can’t treat you here for anything above 140/90,” she told me through misty eyes of her own.
160/110.
149/95.
155/107.
“You’re now considered high risk, and we don’t have the medication or the protocol to treat you for high blood pressure.”
I was devastated. For months I planned and prepared to give birth at the birthing center. I read all about how to give birth naturally, without interventions, without medication. No sterile rooms, no harsh lights. I practiced breathing and visualization techniques. I was so ready, spirit, soul and body, to do this the old-fashioned way, the I-am-woman, hear-me-roar way. And in a manner I was wildly convinced of at the time, the right way.
And yet here I was, cornered into having to deliver at the hospital due to an unforeseen, unexpected medical emergency despite a next-to-perfect, model pregnancy. The complete opposite of everything I wanted and had planned for, had now become my reality. I didn’t understand why this was happening. Soon enough, I would.
We arrived at St. Francis Hospital at 11:00 am. By 2:00 p.m. I was diagnosed with gestational hypertension and admitted for induction. The next two days were painfully slow as my doctors and nurses worked to ease my body into labor.
They started by giving me an oral medication to help soften my cervix. After a day, they upped my dosage but labor still wasn’t starting. Finally, around 11:00 pm on Thursday the 25th they inserted a foley catheter bulb that in a matter of an hour made contractions go from zero to one hundred, to the point where I could hardly breathe through them. They quickly ordered an epidural which I got at 3:00 am. After that, Sam and I were able to sleep for a few hours while we waited for things to keep moving along.
Friday May 26, 2023
All day my labor progressed. At 5:00 pm, my nurse told me I could start practice pushing. We were so excited and couldn’t believe it was almost time to meet our baby. After a few practice pushes, she told me I was pushing so well she could feel baby’s head. Finally the doctor came in and realized it wasn’t going to be long before we had this baby so she had me stop pushing while she got herself and the room ready for delivery.
I pushed for about 20 more minutes and my doctor asked me if I wanted to deliver when the time came. Without hesitation I told her, “Yes!”
Suddenly it was time, and in a rush she told me to reach down and grab the baby. I reached down to grab him and pulled him up towards me in a single motion and I said,
“It’s a boy!”
I looked at Sam and he said,
“It’s a boy!”
I heard my nurse say, “A true knot! He’s a miracle!”
I didn’t know what she meant at the time.
But in that same split second the joy was sucked out of the room when my doctor ordered me to bring baby down to my chest and lay him on top of me. I realized he hadn’t started crying yet.
The next thing I knew she grabbed him and started patting him forcefully on his back, saying, “Come on, come on!” The next sequence of words I heard were:
“Not breathing.”
“Blue.”
“Limp.”
It was at this point Sam heard someone call for a “code pink” and within minutes a team of half a dozen or more nurses were in our room trying to resuscitate our baby.
In a panic I began asking, “Is he okay?! Is he going to be okay?!”
No one was answering me.
The room was quietly frantic. I heard sounds and beeps and voices and machines, but I did not hear any crying.
“IS HE OKAY?! Is he going to be okay?!” The panic was growing into a paralyzed fear. A wall of tears began to build behind my eyes.
Still, no one was answering me, because no one had an answer.
“Tiff, look at me. Hey, look at me! He’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” Sam’s voice broke my downward spiral into desperation as his hands began to cradle my face.
“He’s good. He’s going to be good. Just stay with me.” His voice was cracking. He was trying to reassure me of what he didn’t know. The minutes were going by without hearing our baby cry. “Everything is going to be okay.” He wiped my tears as his own ran down his face.
I’ll never know exactly how long it took for them to save our baby’s life. Some told me it was five minutes, some told me ten. To me it lasted an eternity. But finally, the atmosphere of the room shifted, the tension broke, and I heard upbeat voices from the nurses behind us.
He was alive. There was still no cry, but we did hear a whimper. They told me his weight. 5 pounds, 15 ounces.
“What’s his name?” a nurse asked.
“Shepard,” Sam said. “His name is Shepard.”
They wrapped him in a swaddle and brought him over to me briefly so I could see him before taking him to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for further care.
________
Sam had gone with Shepard back to the NICU and my doctor was still working to clean me up when I asked her through a waterfall of tears to tell me what happened.
She explained that Shepard had formed a knot in his umbilical cord by looping himself through it at some point during gestation. As he got bigger towards the end of my pregnancy, the knot became tighter and tighter, what they call a rare “true” knot, something they couldn’t have known about before birth.
In the weeks leading up to his birth he was getting less and less blood flow and oxygen, so he was sending signals to my brain to make more blood.
That’s why I had high blood pressure. It was because my body was doing its job to keep Shepard alive.
But the moment he was born, the knot in his umbilical cord was pulled so tight, it completely cut off his life support. In most cases, an event like that ends in stillbirth. That’s why the nurse called him a miracle when he was born.
My doctor held my hand and started to cry with me. “If you hadn’t been here, Shepard would not have survived.”
_________
Even though I knew he was alive, I still didn’t know if he was okay. It wasn’t until Sam came back from the NICU about an hour later that I saw the smile on his face.
“He’s going to be okay!”
He actually knew this time.
I’ll never forget that moment. Everything in me broke. The doctors and nurses had left our room; it was just Sam and I.
Tears the size of tsunamis crashed down on our faces. Wails of joy and unparalleled relief filled the room. Sam held me close in my hospital bed as I heaved in his arms.
A son. We have a son.
We almost weren’t here.
He almost didn’t make it.
But he’s here.
And he’s going to be okay.
_________
It’s been exactly three months since Shepard was born.
I think part of what has been so hard about processing his birth, besides the obvious trauma of almost losing him, is how much I haven’t known how to approach God through it all.
And after months of just letting his story sit and the dust settle, I realized why.
It’s not that I can’t thank God.
It’s that I can’t thank him enough.
What he did was too big, too miraculous, too amazing for words. Too holy, too loving, too merciful for my heart to comprehend. I can’t thank him enough with my words, with my worship, with my song, with my tears. It’s not enough, nothing will ever be enough to thank God for giving Shepard life.
In one of the first church services we attended as a family of three, we sang the song “Gratitude” by Brandon Lake:
“So I throw up my hands, and praise you again and again.
‘Cause all that I have is a hallelujah,
Hallelujah.
And I know it’s not much, but I’ve nothing else fit for a King.
Except for a heart singing hallelujah,
Hallelujah.”
That was it.
I can’t offer God anything big enough in return for the life of my son, just like I’ve got nothing fit to thank him for mine.
So what’s left to do?
There is only to praise him, again and again, for the life he’s given us through his son.
And, as the Holy Spirit lovingly whispered to my heart, to enjoy the gift.
What I’ve learned about God through Shepard’s story is how beautiful of a gift life is, and how much it pleases God when we enjoy the gift of life he’s given us through his son.
Because of Jesus we have breath in our lungs, and hope for our lives. Because of Jesus we get to be children, friends, co-heirs, and partners with God. Because of Jesus we get to have a life worth living!
Every day I look at the face of my precious baby boy and am reminded of what God did not just three months ago in that delivery room, but of what he did thousands of years ago on that cross.
I really pray Shepard’s story reminds you of the new life and sweet hope we have in Jesus. I hope it encourages you to live each day as a reflection of that beautiful gift.
Thank you Jesus for sweet Shep’s life.
Thank you Jesus for mine.
I’ve got nothing else fit to offer you but my praise and adoration.
And I will enjoy this gift forever.
Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever— Westminster Shorter Catechism
