Miracle Baby — With God nothing is impossible
“Lieutenant, that baby is dying.” The obstetrician’s condescending voice increased in volume with every sentence. “That baby has less than a five percent chance of being born.
The normally bustling Labor and Delivery unit at the Naval Hospital was quiet, watching the Commander dress me down. “The sonogram and ultrasound have shown no evidence of lungs. The heart is not fully formed, despite the fact that she’s full term. If that baby survives birthing, it…will…die. “
With shoulders squared—her epaulet designations clearly outranking me; she gave me no opportunity to speak. “You were called up here to talk some sense into her. You shouldn’t be giving her any false hope. Don’t use religion to prolong everyone’s trauma. No one needs to be put through this. That baby will die
Beeping monitors provided the backdrop for her continued diatribe, “You can’t change the reality with prayer.” Her pause gave me an opening.
“Eye-to-eye, I said softly with deliberation, “Doctor, …whether… that baby… lives or dies… is not up to… you …or me. Only God decides who lives and dies. If God wants that baby to live, it will live.”
My pager buzzed, breaking the awkwardness; the same pager that had called for a duty chaplain to the ward where the head nurse had apprised me of the emergency. “Chaplain, we’re monitoring a full-term fetus that is dying. The staff is agonizing over its impending death.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. They wanted me to convince Susy, (not her real name) the wife of a petty officer, to turn off the equipment and resign herself to the reality of her unborn baby’s future. They said it was going to die.
Entering her room, I greeted her with as much hope as I could muster and offered my services. Susy looked up from her bed, where wires attached both her and the baby to the monitor, recording their respective vitals.
Tears welled and words overflowed. “I know the staff wants me to turn off the baby monitoring equipment but I just can’t do it. You don’t know what we’ve been through, this baby and me . . . and I don’t want to give up on her . . . just yet.” She hiccupped slightly; John and I really …want this baby. I’ve had all sorts of problems during the pregnancy, but I have tried to do everything the doctor said.” She dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up Kleenex.
John had been away for several months at “A” school, training for the next level as an Electricians Mate; the local church had been her only support. “They’ve been there for me. I don’t think I could have made it without their help and prayers.
She paused, breathing deeply. “I don’t want to give up on this baby, not when I have tried so hard, believed so long.”
How to give this woman hope when scientific evidence said there was no hope? I glanced down at my Bible and faced her again. “Would you like me to read to you? I’m not certain what the future holds, but I do know that when I feel confused, reading stories from the Bible always helps me.”
She nodded, and I opened my well-thumbed Bible, my constant companion. The stories of miracle births came alive in the room: a mother, Hannah, who had been unable to have a child; her inadequacy heightened by the ridicule she suffered from others. After praying every day, her dreams were realized. Sarah gave birth—she was supposedly too old. Jesus was born to the Virgin Mary—for the angel had told her, “With God, nothing is impossible.” Even Anna, the Prophetess, gave thanks after recognizing Jesus as the Redeemer; and Mary’s cousin, the older, no-longer-barren, Elizabeth became the mother of John the Baptist.
When I stopped reading, Susy whispered, “I don’t really expect… she will live…but I just want to hear her cry. If I could just hear her cry, then I would be …o.k. Do you think God would let her live long enough to let me hear her cry?” She wrung her hands in anguish.
We prayed, but were interrupted; her doctor strode in and peremptorily dismissed me with, “Chaplain, I need to examine the patient. Would you step out?”
After promising Susy to return, I was startled to find that Dr. Smith followed me instead. She swore, “Chaplain, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her diatribe felt never-ending. But my pager vibrated again; saved! I returned to my office where a colleague pulled me aside. “When you didn’t show for worship, I knew it must be something really critical. So I stopped the service; said that you were handling an emergency and needed our prayer. I asked if we could have an impromptu prayer time. Even if we didn’t know what to pray for, we knew that God knew.”
“Thank you. I needed it.” Sinking into a chair, to relax for a moment, I detailed what had happened on the ward. But the pager buzzed again – this time from Labor and Delivery. Susy had given birth and I raced back.
Her face radiant; she gushed, “I heard her cry! I heard her cry!” But there was no baby in sight. Susy said the newborn had been rushed to the neonatal intensive care unit—NICU.
Susy looked at me wistfully, as though she didn’t have the right to ask, but wanted to anyway. “I know I shouldn’t expect anything, but, could we ask God if she could live long enough for my husband to see and hear her cry? He should be here tonight.”
We prayed, thanking God for the blessing of hearing the infant cry and asking if the little one could live long enough for the father to see and hold his child.
A neonatal doctor entered in hurriedly. He explained that her advance directives indicated that the baby should receive no intervention prolonging her demise unnecessarily. Sheepishly, he voiced his amazement, “We can’t figure it out. She had no evidence of lungs and her heart was not … well, somehow, she’s breathing on her own, but she needs additional help. Before we can treat her, you need to sign this paper authorizing it.” Susy joyfully scribbled her name.
When I checked with the staff before leaving that day, the news was good; baby was improving and John would arrive around 8 p.m. But after dinner, I spoke with Dr Jones.
“Chaplain, the baby will not last much longer. I’m going to tell the parents. I’d like you to be there.” I rushed back to be with them.
Suzy introduced John, who couldn’t contain his excitement. “I got to hold her!” A grin lit up his face, “I counted every finger and every toe. She’s so tiny…fits in my hand.” Cupping his hand, he air-rocked an infant. “I was nervous that I was going to do something wrong.”
Susy beamed, “Chaplain, guess what we named her? Anna Elizabeth—from the stories!” I listened to their enthusiasm as they planned her future.
Dr Jones came in briskly at 9 o’clock, broke the news and left.
Both John and Suzy were stunned and barely able to speak. The crestfallen father looked to me. “Could we ask God to spare her? Could we?”
Nodding, I reached across the bed to join hands; we prayed, entrusting Anna Elizabeth’s life to God, believing, like Mary and Sarah and Elizabeth and Anna, that with God, nothing was impossible.
While we waited for Dr Jones’ next report, I read the stories aloud, again.
Around 10 p.m. Dr Jones returned, again shaking his head in disbelief. He couldn’t explain it, but “Anna Elizabeth has started breathing on her own again… about an hour ago”— the exact time we had been praying. My eyes met Susy’s across the bed; the new parents’ faces were beaming with joy.
Little Anna Elizabeth, however, required a higher level of assistance than was available from the Navy. The Children’s Hospital nearby could provide this treatment, but the baby needed a guardian to accompany her.
Who could go? Mom was recovering; their five-year-old anxiously awaited and needed his dad. At that late hour they didn’t want to distress him further. Seeing their dire need, I volunteered my husband and me to be their surrogates.
The father held out a teddy bear for Anna Elizabeth. I carried it with my Bible into the NICU, where I sat in a rocking chair–available for parents–and watched the staff work on the drugged-induced, flushed, dark-red, 3-pound baby, lying spread eagled and punctured with necessary tubes—some carrying life giving medicine and fluids; others eliminating waste—so they could work without flailing limbs interfering with their delicate work.
Afterwards, several confided that they were heartened each time they looked up and saw the Bible and cuddly florescent-pink teddy bear clutched in my arms while I prayed and rocked; rocked and prayed.
The Navy’s team of six worked until midnight when the Children Hospital’s team of six arrived. It took two hours and all 12 staff to prepare her for transport by incubator and ambulance. The NICU, at Children’s, worked on her throughout the night. My husband and I kept vigil in the hospital’s chapel until the father arrived.
That afternoon, the call came that Anna Elizabeth was dying. Prayer chains (linking people who pray) intensified; others fasted. Flurries of phone calls and hospital visits—a roller coaster ride of good news and bad—culminated four days later with the knowledge that she had stabilized.
Everyone shook their heads in amazement. By medical standards, the infant should not have survived. Still, her eyes, ears, cardiopulmonary and respiratory systems could potentially have problems. Anna Elizabeth required close medical scrutiny for months.
But at the child’s first annual check-up, the doctor could find no residual problems.
A community—believer and unbeliever alike—witnessed God’s compassionate and merciful response to fervent prayers. Whenever we who had been involved with that miracle baby crossed paths, we smiled; shook our heads, incredulous, but knowing we had experienced that with God, nothing is impossible.
