Yesterday in my Timehop I saw photos that broke my heart. Seeing them brought back a rush of emotion and reminders. I definitely learned a lot and pondered it and came out stronger on the other side, but I’m not sure I documented and shared it enough – which is part of the process for me. No one may care, but it was time for me to give words to it. Here they are.

Loney was just over a week old, tiny and perfect. She still had that uneven newborn breathing, and was sleeping 6 hour stretches. It’s so easy to mistake or ignore symptoms when they’re newborns, because there’s just so many weird things about newborns. I was absolutely stoked about how much she was sleeping, and not overly concerned about sniffling.

As Friday wore on, Loney seemed more and more lethargic, and just sad. She would just stare at me and I knew she wasn’t feeling good, but she wasn’t displaying anything serious. What really tipped us off was my habit of taking 300 photos a day. I noticed that her poor little eyes were looking puffy and tired that evening, but not in the photos I had taken that morning. To this day, Loney’s eyes are the first thing to telegraph her illness.

Finally late, like 9 or 10 pm, I called our pediatric hotline, scared. After paying close attention once the day had calmed down, I was able to notice very subtle signs: a very slight wheeze, bodily tension when she breathed. She could have had them all day, but we’d been running errands and she’d been passed through family members all evening. Things which I’d immediately started mentally abusing myself over. The nurse asked me to look for retractions on her bare chest. I didn’t know what she meant, but stripped her down and began noticing that with each breath there was a pull that sucked in her stomach all around her ribcage, and even between the bones. The nurse booked me the first appointment with the pediatrician in the morning.

We arrived exhausted and jittery. She slept well, but woke up with even sadder eyes that physically hurt me. Within a few minutes the doctor affirmed that she had tested positive for RSV and send us straight to the hospital. I drove over in a daze, a weird detachment as I tried to swallow panic with my rational wisdom.

They put my tiny little bundle in a giant crib. They had to roll up blankets around her to keep her from sliding in her little swaddle burrito. She was hooked up to three sets of tubes and cords, and then they left us alone. And I totally freaking lost it.

She was so small. She was SO small. And she was too good. Everyone kept commenting on how chill and pleasant and cooperative she was for a newborn, and a sick one at that. I looked up, trying to blink away tears and saw ceiling tiles, presumably decorated by sick kids who had once stayed in this same room. It hurt. It hurt my chest. I began to sob, thinking about all these small, innocent children who had to be in that cramped room, stuck, isolated, sick. Where are those kids now? Did they make it? Did any of them fight a battle that began with RSV?

I knew I was being dramatic. But I also knew that my tiny daughter was only days old. I knew that babies have died from RSV. I knew actual people in my actual life who had lost children, a journey that began in a fear-saturated hospital room. I knew she probably would be fine. But that everyone wants their child to be fine.

And then the doctors would come in. When you have a baby you get used to the constant interruptions. They come monitor your vitals. They bring your next dose of meds. They bring you the lactation consultant. They come introduce themselves at the first round of their shift.

This was very different. They came just as frequently, but my state when they came changed every time. They’d walk in while I was sobbing and I’d have to pull it together. Or they’d walk in while Loney was snuggled peacefully in my lap, looking up at me with what I flattered myself was trust, and I’d have to surrender my peace.

They’d come in when I was certain she was doing better, and they’d tell me she wasn’t. They’d come in when I was nearly at a breaking point and tell me her breathing sounded much clearer. A doctor would seem unworried, and later a nurse would speak with such worry and pity that I’d immediately spiral down again. You start to live in these 90 minute intervals between interruptions, with slippery hands gripping at your sanity rope.

I calmly and lightheartedly updated family and close friends, assuring them that she was fine and this was just a precaution because she was so new – a truth. But it felt like a lie when I was fighting off waking nightmares of telling them we lost Loney. Rehearsing the tragedy of the doctor coming in, alerting to a new severity or an uncovered condition.

When Ryan got there I felt immediate and total relief… until I saw the way he looked at her. He looked at our little girl hooked up to tubes and sensors and it was like the lights went out. I rubbed my face into his shoulder as he held her, the guilt tearing into me. This was my fault. I am supposed to protect my child. I shouldn’t have taken her out for errands. I shouldn’t let her get passed around. I should have been more vigilant about hand sanitizer.

I also sobbed all those things to my dad, when he arrived to help Ryan give Loney her first blessing. Those hands. Four strong, big man hands. On the tiniest little dark-haired head. I loved it and hated it so much at the same time.

That was the first time I felt the Spirit soak that suffocating room. The second was the following day – Sunday – when men arrived to administer the sacrament to me. The tears were different then. I had woken hopeful that we could go home, but those hopes were dashed. I was crushed, feeling guilty that she was sick, guilty that she was small, guilty that Ryan was so worried, guilty that I was away from Reese. But the sacrament was manna, the prayers medicine.

I turned a corner at that point, though Loney hadn’t made significant improvement. I was able to stop crying so much and instead think about more. What I was supposed to learn from this. All the positive takeaways.

48 hours in immediate, watching contact with my Loney, which hasn’t happened since, and was so so precious. I feel like I learned a lot about who she was and who she might become, simply because distractions were removed and emotions heightened.

That moment when a nurse I’d loved last week came walking in during a dark moment and said “I heard you were back! I’m so sorry! Do you want a Diet Coke?” and I literally burst into happy, grateful tears. I truly do not mean this to sound sacrilegious but I knew God was in that moment.

Reese wondering where “Wonin” was, because she was part of our family.

My best friend sending me an uplifting video about motherhood when I felt like the world’s worst mother, then showing up with a Diet Coke and cupcakes.

Realizing just how many people were on our team, caring about our little Lone.

Malone’s birth wasn’t quite as powerful an experience as Reese’s and I had worried about that. Was I not as connected? Not as spiritually healthy? In reality I think it was just that Reese’s birth was a conversion of my individual heart to a mom one, so the experience was big. Naturally I didn’t need it a second time, duh. But my concern and then that dedicated time holding her for nearly two days straight? Yeah. We’re fine. I’m obviously connected with this llama in a major, loving, eternal way. And I think I needed that time in the hospital to see it.

Renewed appreciation for my home, my space, my people. And sleep. In a real bed.

A more serious approach to keeping sniffling people away from my baby. Don’t be the douche that brings your sick kid to public places – even around family! I’m insufferable about that now!!! I don’t know if it would have prevented RSV but I do know this was awful and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Finally understanding what Brene Brown had been trying to teach me – rehearsing tragedy is not helpful if it does happen, and super depleting if it doesn’t happen. The only antidote to those scary thoughts of a sick baby never leaving a hospital crib is supreme and surrendering gratitude. I still fight those thoughts and rehearsals a lot, but when I use gratitude I conquer them and love my life more.

Really, it was not that big of a deal. Well, the bill kind of was. She was fine. She has no lasting complications that we know of – other than that she seems to get sick more frequently than Reese did. Nothing scary happened. I don’t think she was ever in serious pain or fear. I learned so much and loved so much. It galvanized my family, somehow.

But it sucked, y’all. So here I am sharing it, so that I can feel good. Good that it taught us something. Like to stay home until it’s over 70 degrees.