She's here.

It was a moment I have never experienced before. The moment I first saw her and was afraid of how much I loved her. Afraid to love her because I am so terrified she is going to get ripped from my grasp. What would that do to me? What would that do to us? Would we be able to bounce back from it if this didn't last? I honestly think it might break me.

Tuesday, December 20 started out pretty good. Monday had been a rough day as far as morale was concerned, but I was bound and determined to make Tuesday better. I had no reason to believe this little baby wasn't going to keep cooking for several more weeks. The visit with the doctor on Monday night went well. She had passed her daily BPP ultrasound (an ultrasound performed to make sure baby isn't in any stress and is in an adequate environment and growing sufficiently), my blood pressure was stable and I had felt her move quite a bit during the day. I was feeling good.

All morning Tuesday I was riding high on that feeling I went to bed with on Monday. I was hell bent and determined on thinking positively and hanging onto the hope I still had. But I was nervous. I hadn't really felt her move very much during the day. Maybe she was napping?

We got called in for our daily BPP ultrasound and I went into it fully expecting her to pass. Why wouldn't she? She had just passed Monday's test with flying colors. The ultrasound is given a 30 minute window and in that 30 minute time frame, the baby is supposed to attempt to breath and also have adequate movement. Our baby did neither. We sat there and looked at the screen and with each passing minute I felt the worry rising inside of me.  She just layed there perfectly still. I begged her to move. I poked my belly. They put a buzzer on my belly to stimulate her. Nothing worked. She just remained perfectly still with a heart rate that was slower today than it was yesterday.

The technician left us in the room to call our doctor to find out what they wanted to do and we just broke down. Pleading to whoever or whatever might be listening. "Please don't take her too. Not again. Please... please.... Not again."

The technician came back in the room and said she had spoken to our doctor (who was in Jackson Hole seeing their high risk patients), and he wanted to admit us in to labor and delivery for continuous monitoring. He sent me a text telling me that he was on his way back to Salt lake and that his colleague, Dr. Andres, (whose opinion he values very much) would be in to assess our situation.

We slowly walked ourselves over to the labor and delivery section of the hospital with our heads low with sorrow. Walking past rooms full of mothers waiting to give birth to their perfectly healthy and full term babies. Hearing babies cry and eat and people gush over how perfect they were. Seeing mothers get wheeled out in a wheelchair to be taken home while the fathers beamed with pride as they held their new baby in their car seat. Wanting to be happy for them but at the same time, feeling like an earth sized hole is going to be left in my heart for what I could lose. How could this possibly be happening again? We just didn't understand. She was fine. Yesterday.... She was fine! And yet...one day later, there I was.... in my mind trying to pick out which song I would sing at her funeral if she didn't make it.

I was immediately hooked up to a monitor so they could continuously monitor my baby's heart rate. Her baseline heart rate was still within the "normal" range for a 24 week baby (120-160 bpm) but it was a lot lower than what it had been the day before.  After the tests ran for about an hour, Dr Andres came in with Dr. Jenkins to give us the prognosis. Our baby wasn't doing well. In a nut shell, the placenta was insufficient and she was slowly dying. It seemed as if it was a matter of when at this point and it was up to us if we wanted to deliver her now and give her a fighting chance in the NICU or try to prolong it a few more days and risk her dying in my uterus and giving birth to a stillborn baby. The choice was ours.

Dr. Andres and Dr. Jenkins were able to reach my doctor, who was in an out of service driving back from Jackson, and my doctor agreed with the prognosis but said he would like to keep me on the monitors and repeat the BPP ultrasound around midnight. Dr. Andres sent the neonatologists into our room to give us the information regarding the NICU and how the events would transpire once our baby was handed off to them. This is when it happened. I thought we had a few more hours to process things. ..... but I was mistaken.

As the neonatologist was sitting there talking to us, we could sense an urgency in the room amongst the nurses and the resident that was on duty. They couldn't find our baby's heart beat anymore.... but there! They found it! But it had dropped down to 80 bpm. It was so low that they had mistaken it for mine. It was happening. Our baby's heart was slowly stopping right before our eyes. They called Dr. Jenkins in the room and the decision was made to rush me into an emergency c-section.

An oxygen bag was placed over my face as people were running around in an organized chaos. They knew what they had to do. I knew what I had to do. Just breath. Slow and deep. Slow and deep. They wheeled me away from my husband. My strong and capable husband who was managing to say through tears, "Please save my baby. Please take care of my girls."

I was sent to an operating room and within a few short minutes of prep, I hear someone say, "We are ready to cut", and my world went dark and I fell asleep.

Dalley Raye Garfield was born at 5:03 PM. She weighed 1 lb 2 oz. She was approximately 11.5 inches long. She is perfect and tough.

I had awoken from the surgery and Adam was there to tell me everything was okay. As of that moment, our baby girl was doing okay. She was tiny and the smallest baby in the NICU but she was and is a fighter and she is in the most capable hands.

As of that moment the count changes. She was no longer weeks old in the womb, but she was born and as of today she became one day old. She is our tiny miracle and fighting like crazy.

It was very hard for me to see her today. I can't hold her yet. I can't touch her. I can't feed her or sing to her while I rock her. She can't see me because her eyes are still fused shut. They have somebody watching her 24 hours a day and running tests on her and making sure her blood pressures and blood sugars are stable. I am so afraid of the power that this tiny person has over me and us, but I guess this is being a mother and a father. It's  no longer about us. It's all about her.

She is one day old. We have so many things to be grateful for today. We're grateful we made it to 24 weeks and 0 days before she had to be born. Her chance of survival goes up from the 30-50% range to 90%. We're grateful that we were on the monitors when her heart rate started to dip so that we could get into surgery immediately. We're grateful for the highly educated individuals that have and will be part of our journey here. We're grateful for my family who came to be with us, despite me telling them not to come. We're grateful for the texts and calls we have gotten from people to wish us well and tell us they are with us and support us through this. We're grateful for the donations and gifts people have sent to brighten our spirits and lighten our financial burden. You have no idea how much you mean to us and how much you ease the pain by caring. The world is full of so much love.

This is going to be a long hard road. We have cried many tears together already and I'm sure we haven't cried our last. I'm reassured there will be good days and bad days. I know those hard days will be made lighter by your continued love, support and prayers. We are still hoping and praying for a miracle and that when all is said and done, we will get to take home our beautiful baby girl.

Please keep the prayers and positives vibes coming. We need you now more than ever.

-Adam and Lacey