I Went To The ER For Back Pain and Spontaneously Delivered My Preemie Son

I gave birth to my second-born son, Jacob, on Jan. 6, 2024, after just 27 weeks and three days of gestation. What I thought was going to be a quick visit to the emergency room for back pain ended in his spontaneous birth. Though my time in the ER was short — three hours and 58 minutes — it was enough to turn my world upside down.

With my firstborn, Andrew, I had to be induced at 41 weeks because he seemed so cozy in utero. It never occurred to me that my second child’s delivery would go so differently.

When I joined the NICU parents club, I fixated on a core thought: Did I completely take my firstborn’s healthy delivery and newborn stage for granted? As I went on my own personal journey to process Jacob’s traumatic birth and his stay in the neonatal intensive care unit, talking and writing about it were integral to my healing and answering that question.

When I delivered Andrew, I was in a comfortable bed in the labor and delivery department, and enjoying the fruits of an epidural after my induction. In short, my husband and I knew we were having a baby, we were fully prepared, 10-ish hours later he was born, and we brought him home the next day.

The birth of Jacob was much more chaotic. I had returned to the ER two days after being diagnosed with — and receiving treatment for — an intestinal infection, suffering from the most unbearable pain I’d ever felt. The physician on call had no idea that I was experiencing back labor and instead theorized that I had a herniated disc. At the hospital, they had intended to take me to get an MRI, and instead I delivered my baby on an emergency room gurney, accompanied only by my sister who had arrived minutes before. As the new ER doctor entered the room, I realized that the horrific pain was gone. I turned my head and asked if I had delivered the baby, and he responded with a solemn “yes.”

My sister collapsed her body over mine and the two of us sobbed, while my baby lay next to me ― still in an amniotic sac ― limp and unresponsive. He was resuscitated and whisked away to the neonatal intensive care unit at 7:58 a.m. and my husband was called to the hospital. Overnight, we became NICU parents.

During our first of many visits with the neonatologist, she informed us of certain requirements that babies must meet prior to being discharged: reaching 35 weeks and weighing 1,800 grams, among others. Quick math suggested that we had at least an eight-week stay ahead of us, and the baby would need to gain 530 grams. It all sounded impossible.

In a clear incubator in bed No. 4 of the NICU, he was the smallest baby I had ever seen — and he was mine. He had what looked like tiny, little oven mitts on his hands and feet, a ventilator pushing air down his throat, and a preemie-sized Pampers diaper that was enormous on him. I broke down in tears when I saw him, pressed a finger to the plastic and said, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what to do. I was a seasoned mom, but when my second child needed me, all I could do was stare at him.

The next day we decided to name him Jacob Ash Jordan, with the middle name for my sister Ashleigh. Without her, he never would have had the opportunity for survival.

We visited him constantly over the next few days while I was still in the hospital recovering. I finally got to hold him on our fourth day. I sat in a recliner, and a nurse very carefully transferred him from his incubator and onto my chest. He was lighter than light. The CPAP machine nearly covered his entire face, but he was beautiful. My husband and I had tears pouring out of our eyes.

That’s when it hit me: Did we take our first experience of parenting completely for granted? The first person to hold Andrew once he was safely delivered was me. And he never went hours without being in my arms, let alone days.

When we handed Jacob back to the NICU nurse, we tearfully returned to our room to pack our belongings and leave the hospital without our baby. I felt numb as I walked by the NICU and still couldn’t believe any events from the previous days had happened. And though I was looking forward to seeing Andrew at home, a new pain set in when we got into the car, completely void of a car seat. There was no nervous/excited ride home with me sitting beside our newborn.

The next 10 weeks felt like Groundhog Day every day. Pump every three hours, wash and sanitize pump parts, take Andrew to day care, cry on the way to the hospital, fashion my own parking spot in the crowded lot, wait in line at reception, scrub in. In the mornings all I could do was stand at Jacob’s bedside, singing and talking to him, while awaiting the doctor rounds, holding my breath and hoping for a “boring update.” I’d go home when the NICU closed to make something for dinner and let the dog out, return to the hospital, do skin-to-skin, pick up Andrew on the way home and start his dinner. I thought I was being present with both kids, but Andrew seemed to be favoring his dad. It was killing me.

My husband and I were ships passing in the night. I took the day shifts at the hospital, and he’d come home from work, help put Andrew to bed and then beeline to the hospital to be with Jacob for the night shift. Our weekends started to be meticulously planned around Jacob’s rigid eating schedule and Andrew’s napping.

I was obsessed with Jacob’s vitals. Like many babies, he lost weight after his birth — but unlike a lot of babies, each gram was pivotal. How many grams did he weigh? How many milliliters of milk were they feeding him through his tube? What were his oxygen levels?

I had been very anxious during our first few weeks home with Andrew, as most new moms feel. Was he eating enough? Am I nursing right? Why hasn’t he produced a wet diaper? When we learned of our pregnancy with Jacob, I was looking forward to seeing what kind of parent I’d be with a toddler under my belt. Would I have the same postpartum anxiety, or would I feel more confident in knowing what I was doing? Visions I’d had for myself, like seeing Andrew excitedly walk into the recovery room to meet his new brother at the hospital, immediately vanished.

NICU life can be one step forward, two steps back, and everything feels like a big deal. We celebrated our wins and milestones, but anytime he needed a treatment or a new medication, it felt soul-crushing.

All we wanted to do was comfort Jacob and shower him with love — what we did so easily with Andrew without ever giving it a second thought. We held Andrew whenever we wanted and let him nap on us for hours. With Jacob, we either had to quell our natural parenting instincts or were too nervous to act on them. He was so fragile that the tiny hospital bracelet cut into his skin, and my husband was afraid to even touch his foot. For the first six weeks of our stay, my husband and I had to choose which one of us got to hold him that day. It went against every fiber of our being to ask permission to hold our own child.

It took weeks until I felt confident enough to change Jacob’s diaper. I was terrified of hurting him. When I finally did, it was done awkwardly through two little doors on the side panel of the incubator. Who would have ever thought I’d miss our life of changing Andrew on one of our two strategically placed changing tables at home?

Meeting fellow NICU moms saved me from my own downward spirals of sadness. We’d ask each other about the babies, chat through a curtain while in the pumping room or in the hallway getting ready to scrub in. Jacob was refusing to eat from a bottle one day, and I was beside myself. A fellow mom suggested we get coffee. We exchanged stories and cried together. These women were some of the strongest and most inspiring people I’d ever met.

We took Jacob home on March 15 after 69 excruciatingly long days. As we exited the NICU for the very last time, the hallways I’d walked a million times were lined with nurses, doctors, lactation specialists and social workers — all cheering us on and clapping us out. It was hands-down the most moving experience of my life.

The entire NICU staff was wonderful to us. The nurses in particular genuinely cared for our son and had a special interest in him. They always remained so calm despite dipping oxygen levels or elevated heart rates signaling the alarm bells to go off. They answered our questions, listened to our concerns, took time to pick out cute baby outfits and filled out milestone cards on our behalf. We were in the presence of actual angels.

In all honesty, I wasn’t able to find gratitude right away, and I know now that this is OK. I was of course thrilled that my son was alive, but devastated for the trauma endured by Jacob, me and our loved ones. I felt so much guilt for my husband, who was such a rock star during Andrew’s birth. He had brought hard candies to suck on, massaged my back and literally cheered me on when it was time to push. But he missed Jacob’s birth completely and learned he was a father all over again through a phone call.

My sister — my hero and one of my favorite people in the world — witnessed something horrific. I’ll be grateful to her forever for dropping everything and coming to the hospital.

Yes, the experiences of parenting our two newborns were wildly different, but it wouldn’t be right to say my husband and I took our early days of Andrew for granted, because it was all we knew. We’re now painfully aware of how lucky we were to have had a healthy baby boy and a smooth delivery. And though it was hard navigating life in the NICU with a toddler at home, getting to witness everything through a hilarious toddler’s eyes was the escapism we needed. We squeezed Andrew a little tighter, cried at virtually anything he did and, when he was finally united with Jacob, marveled at how well he fit into his role as a brother.

Jacob Ash Jordan is currently home and thriving.

To my fellow NICU parents, I see you; I’m sorry for what you’re going through; and I am keeping your little one in my thoughts. Having gone through it all, and come out of it on the other side, knowing so many people are rooting for you helps when you feel helpless.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected].