Rayven was born on a Friday morning - the day after Thanksgiving.  I had awakened several times during the night with cramping, but nothing extraordinary - or so I thought.  I awakened that morning to find out that I was bleeding.  During the next three hours I would discover that I was fully dilated, have my baby delivered by Cesarean, and awaken to find myself lying in a recovery room while my child was landing on a helicopter pad at a Dallas hospital to take up residency for the next four months.

During these 119 days our family underwent a significant overhaul.  Our hectic, but average, existences became part of the twilight zone.  My 15-month old was too young to understand what was happening, but he knew that he was suddenly being transported back and forth to Mrs. Marie's house on a daily basis.  My 3 1/2 year old developed coping habits like nervous coughing and nail biting, and unlike her younger brother she was old enough to perceive the emotional changes I was undergoing.  Kevin, my husband, did the work all day and deny all night thing that many people do when they find themselves in a situation they can't readily fix.  As for me, my life came to a screeching halt.

Once she finally came home, the journey hadn't ended.  In many ways, it was just beginning.  I was emotionally drained, physically scarred, mentally exhausted, and left alone to fend for myself.  I had to try to rekindle the motherly instincts that are normally present at birth.

Even though Rayven's health improved a little more each month, we had been advised not to send her to a daycare facility because the overexposure to germs would compromise her health and possibly re-hospitalize her.  This meant I couldn't go back to work, even though we desperately needed the money.

Since I was confined to the house, I decided to make the best of the situation and work on all of the around-the-house projects I never had time for and began putting together lesson plans for my preschooler.  At some point during all of these life changes, I decided that I should write a book about my NICU experience.  We were on the post-hospitalization side of prematurity, and I was still having a difficult time.  I wanted to help other women who were struggling.  I couldn't be alone.  I felt like I was, but I knew there had to be others.  More importantly, I knew the book could be a great help to friends, family members, and medical professionals who have a hard time identifying with the parents.