The First 90 Days: A Mother's Memoir of Her Premature Baby's Fight for Life

I knew something was wrong. The obstetrician’s eyes, which had been focused and professional, now held a flicker of something else—a deep, professional concern that chilled me more than the operating theatre. Then, I heard it: a single, thin, reedy cry. It was not the robust, lusty yell of a full-term baby. It was a fragile, desperate sound, like a tiny bird that had fallen from its nest. It was the sound of a life clinging, not to my chest, but to a machine.

They whisked him away before I could see him. I only caught a glimpse of a pinkish blur, impossibly small, with a tangle of dark hair, before he was swallowed by a flurry of white coats and medical instruments. My husband, James, was guided out with him, his face a mask of shock and fear. I was left alone on the table, the adrenaline draining from my body, leaving behind a profound, terrifying emptiness.

That was the beginning. The beginning of a journey I never wanted to take. The beginning of the longest, shortest ninety days of my life. This is not a story about medical miracles, though there were many. It is not a story about triumph over adversity, though we did triumph. It is a story about the quiet, desperate hope that lives in the heart of a mother, the fierce, primal love that blooms in the most desolate of places, and the redefinition of what it means to be a family. This is the story of my son's first ninety days, a fight for life that began in a world of beeps and whispers, and ended with the simple, profound miracle of bringing him home.