Twenty-eight. It’s amazing how a fairly unexciting number (like, the number of days in February, except for every fourth year) has become such a massive thing for me and Rich. Like my mental shift from hoping I don’t have two 8-pound babies, YIKES to hoping they’ll be over three pounds each at birth. Like my shift to realizing there is a better-than-average chance that I’ll leave the hospital and my babies will still be there in the NICU. Like my shift from “Please, God, don’t let me go past my due date!” to “Please, God, keep those babies in as long as possible.”
Twenty-eight means a huge milestone for viability. Twenty-eight is a 95 percent chance of survival. Twenty-eight was the goal the doctors gave me when I went in to the hospital: Just make it to twenty-eight, and everything after that is a bonus. There were plenty of days we didn’t think we would make it, lots of research, so many statistics found and analyzed and recited in our heads. So many fervent prayers, from us and so, so many others.
Today, I am twenty-eight weeks pregnant. We are richly blessed.
For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.