Gianna's Story
Type I Diabetes.
A traumatic birth.
An unexpected NICU stay.

If this feels familiar, you're not alone. 

I found out I was pregnant in one of the most unexpected ways possible. I went to my annual gynecological exam thinking everything was routine. I mentioned to the doctor that what I thought had been my period seemed different than normal.

During the exam, he paused and said, "Um, I think there's something in there." Then he added, "It feels to be about nine weeks if I had to guess."

I was completely caught off guard. He left the room to see if the nurse still had my urine sample so she could run a pregnancy test. Those few minutes felt like forever. Then I heard the nurse call down the hallway, "Positive pregnancy test in Room 3."

I immediately panicked. The doctor returned, confirmed that I was pregnant, and asked if I planned on keeping the baby. When I said yes, he handed me a folder of information and explained that I would need to schedule an ultrasound the following week because it was late on a Friday and the ultrasound technicians didn't have any availability.

From there, my pregnancy seemed relatively normal. Because I have Type I Diabetes, I received additional ultrasounds throughout my pregnancy, as well as regular nonstress tests. Everything appeared reassuring except that my daughter consistently measured larger than her gestational age. I was told that this was common for mothers with Type I Diabetes, but no one discussed the other risks that could accompany diabetic pregnancies, such as shoulder dystocia or dangerously low blood sugar after birth. I would not learn about those possibilities until years later, during my second pregnancy, when I was cared for by both a maternal-fetal medicine specialist and my obstetrician.

I went into labor naturally in the middle of the night. Like many first-time mothers, I showered, shaved, and packed my bags, expecting that I would be home with my newborn in just two or three days. When I arrived at the hospital, my labor was confirmed, but it progressed slowly. Eventually, I was given medication to help move things along.

Throughout labor, I remember being repositioned several times because my daughter's heart rate kept dropping. When it was finally time to push, everything happened quickly. As I was crowning, my doctor looked at me and said, "You have to push her out in the next few minutes or I'm going to have to use forceps."

I pushed with everything I had.

She was born.

But instead of hearing the cries every parent hopes for, she came out purple. She was not breathing, and she was not crying. I remember locking eyes with her father and telling him to go to her. Time seemed to stand still. After what felt like forever, she finally let out a small cry. Only then was I able to breathe again. They briefly brought her over to me before taking her to the hospital's Special Care Nursery.

The following morning, while she was still in the Special Care Nursery, her father noticed what looked like seizure activity and immediately alerted the nurse. The decision was made to transfer her to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at another hospital. Although I knew it was the best place for her to receive the care she needed, nothing could have prepared me for watching my newborn daughter be placed into an incubator, loaded into an ambulance, and driven away without me.

I was discharged from the hospital the following day and went straight to see her. She continued having seizures and required medication to control them, along with continuous brain monitoring. One of my clearest memories is seeing her beautiful, thick black hair almost completely hidden beneath wires and monitoring equipment.

She was unable to eat during her first several days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. She struggled to coordinate sucking, swallowing, and breathing, so she required a nasogastric feeding tube. At first, I was preparing to bring her home with that tube. I learned how to place it myself and practiced until I felt comfortable. Then her medical team determined that a gastrostomy tube would be a safer long-term option. She underwent surgery to have the feeding tube placed when she was one month old, and just a few days later, I was finally able to bring her home.

Life inside the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit is difficult to explain unless you have lived it. Every visit began the same way. I signed in, waited to be buzzed through locked doors, scrubbed my hands, and made the walk to my daughter's room. Her nurses became some of the most incredible people I have ever met. They celebrated every milestone with me and never let me miss important moments. Still, there is something heartbreaking about having to ask permission to hold your own baby.

Every day before leaving, I stood over Wrenlee, said the same prayer, kissed her goodbye, and walked out in tears.

Bringing her home was everything I had dreamed of, even though it looked nothing like I had imagined. Alongside my newborn came an intravenous pole, a feeding pump, tubing, medications, and countless medical appointments. My home quickly became a place of therapy and healing. I had occupational therapy, physical therapy, and speech-language pathology services in my home multiple times each week for Wrenlee, along with additional physical therapy and chiropractic appointments outside the home.

Her activities were often limited because her gastrostomy tube feedings caused significant reflux. Due to her developmental delays and permanent brain injury sustained around the time of her birth, she was diagnosed with global developmental delay. At one point, cerebral palsy was considered a likely diagnosis, although it was later ruled out by her neurologist.

I worked tirelessly alongside her therapists and medical team. Little by little, milestone by milestone, she made progress. She continued to surprise everyone.

Today, Wrenlee is an incredible three-year-old little girl. She loves all the wonderful things three-year-old girls love. She plays, laughs, explores, and lives without giving a second thought to how hard she fought to get here.

She will likely never remember the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, the monitors, the feeding tubes, or the tears I shed each day as I left her bedside. But I will remember every moment.

Those experiences forever changed me as a mother. They are why organizations that support families with babies in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit mean so much to me. During one of the most frightening and isolating seasons of my life, small acts of kindness and compassion mattered more than I can ever express. I know firsthand how meaningful it is to remind a parent that they are seen, supported, and not alone while they wait beside their baby's bed.