Something just didn’t feel right. My stomach churned and the nausea set in as I realized the unimaginable: I was going into labor. Nurses rushed to my hospital room as a flurry of chaos surrounded me. I tried to stay calm, but as I looked at my husband, the tears and sobs set in. I glanced over at the wall where nurses had made a chain link, counting down the days to viability. Two little links left on the wall. Those two days would get me to 23 weeks, our goal for my failing body. But, we didn’t make it. At 22 weeks 5 days, I went into labor with our triplets.
We had been preparing for this moment for weeks. At 20 weeks gestation, my water broke with our first triplet, Abigail. I lay in my hospital bed, unable to sleep as I pondered what might happen in the coming hours. To our surprise, my children were content; the warm blanket of my body provided the comfort they needed to continue to grow.
As the long hours stretched into days, we began daily meetings with doctors, discussing our best and worst case scenarios. For each week that my pregnancy progressed, the better chance our triplets had of surviving. We heard endless statistics and the challenges we faced if our children were born at 23, 24, 25 weeks gestation. The doctors were practical, not sugarcoating the prognosis, but they still gave us a glimmer of hope. While many hospitals won’t intervene until a baby reaches 23 or 24 weeks gestation, our hospital believed in giving our children a chance if possible. And that was the case on June 23, 2013 when I delivered my children at 22 weeks 6 days.