This was my third time experiencing severe preeclampsia—what were the odds? This time, it was much worse. At 24 weeks pregnant, I knew something was wrong. My blood pressure started to rise, I occasionally saw flecks in my vision, and my face and hands were becoming puffy. My provider wasn’t concerned, but having been down this road twice before, I KNEW something was off. It was incredibly frustrating. I felt like people thought I was being dramatic or attention-seeking because I went in for blood pressure checks so often, and I felt like my concerns were being dismissed.

Then, at my 26-week scan, they said my baby had intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR). While noteworthy, they weren’t concerned, but I was. This only supported my preeclampsia concerns, so I told my OBGYN that I wanted to be referred to a maternal fetal medicine (MFM) specialist. She was hesitant but agreed. Three weeks later, I found myself at the MFM office where they told me my baby was in the 1st percentile, possibly even below, which I didn’t even know was possible. My blood pressure was 165/100, I felt like I had a migraine, and I was terrified.

I was admitted and spent the next five days on magnesium (god, I hate that stuff). They gave me every combination of pain killer they could give to a pregnant woman, and none of it worked. Random doctors filtered in and out, watching me skeptically, which made me feel like a drug seeker, though I never requested anything specific, just for the pain to stop. My vision worsened, and anything past my arm was incredibly blurry. The night before I delivered, I stared at the ceiling until dawn. I don’t think I slept at all; the pain was too much, and who could sleep anyways with nurses checking reflexes every hour?

My MFM came in on day five and said he was scheduling a C-section for today at noon. I asked if I could wait until tomorrow so my mother-in-law would have more time to drive from Oregon to Idaho. He said it couldn’t wait until tomorrow; he didn’t think we could even wait until that night. Two hours later, I was being wheeled into an operating room, and my husband was asked to wait outside while they prepped me. I have never felt so sick or so close to death in my life. I don’t think I was fully aware of what was happening; mostly, I remember the lights, vomiting twice while laying on my back, and asking anyone who would listen to bring me my husband. “Where is he? I need him,” I kept saying, and then crying more. A real part of me felt like I was going to die. This was it—the third time was the charm, and it was going to kill me.

I’ll never forget the look on my husband’s face as he looked over the partition and saw our tiny baby. “Do you hear her? She’s making noises! They’re putting her in something, can you see her?” Truthfully, I could barely muster the strength to tilt my head to see his face, let alone turn my head to the side to see her isolette. Madeleine was born at 29 weeks and 5 days gestation, weighing 2 lbs 2 oz. I had never seen a baby that small, that skinny. I wasn’t allowed to hold her because she was too delicate, and I didn’t see her face for the first week because of all the equipment she wore to keep her here with us. Family members asked well-meaning but incredibly hurtful questions like “Will she live?” or “What are her chances?” A real part of me hated them for those questions. I couldn’t bear to think about the number of things that could go wrong. I couldn’t think she wouldn’t come home one day. I wouldn’t think it.

We spent the next 85 days in the NICU, and she came home with a feeding pump and O2 monitor. It’s been almost two years, and she’s healthy and doing great. We still have occupational therapy and NICU follow-ups every six months, but she’s okay. She’s my miracle, my Mighty Maddie.