We are now four days post-op and I've been thinking about what I wanted to say to somehow relay gratitude in its fullest form.

When I went to my 20-week anatomy scan, I was having the best time. The ultra-sound tech walked me through all of the growing parts of my baby, my soon-to-be Lilly. She spent a long time on the heart which I had been pre-warned was normal. But after a long pause, she asked if it would be alright to go speak to my doctor leaving me laying on the table.

Ultrasounds have been a little traumatic for me. We'd lost a baby a year prior, and the ultrasound tech both gave far too much information and shamed me for "not coming in sooner" (as if getting into the hospital sooner would've changed the outcome for that little one). So, a pause on the table, felt like someone was dropping a rock on my chest. 

A week later, Ben and I would sit in a perinatal center for a doctor to do yet another ultrasound. In a rush to see us, he didn't read the full order from my OB, and after his initial scan, he sent us away. We, washed in relief, hopped in the car and pulled into the Taco Bell drive-thru only to receive a call to come right back. "We missed something."

It's strange now, that they missed the heart shift. It's strange, now, that they didn't notice the mass on the lung, but there it was. And then, weekly ultrasounds became our normal. Every week became scarier news, the mass was bigger than we thought, it has pushed the heart over. We'd need an entire NICU team available at birth in case she wasn't breathing. She'd have to have part of her lung removed in her first year of life to get this embedded mass out. If not, she'd stay sick. All those normal childhood illnesses would lock into her lung and she'd be constantly battling a range of respiratory illnesses. And of course, as all masses like to tout, it could become cancerous. This was the plan. She'd function fine with less of a left lung because of "compensatory lung growth", because the "body is redundant", because "plenty of people don't have two functioning lungs." She may not be a "marathon runner" (which was never a concern for us, both being exceptionally unathletic), but she'd be fine.

Every Tuesday, I'd lay down on the table and have my heart ripped in half again. They assured me that in the scheme of things "this was the better end of the spectrum." I nodded. I cried in my car. I rationalized. I knew that we were blessed (we have been, unbelievably so). I watched friends have babies who needed much more support, who had gone to hell and back. I knew the reality of my situation could be worse. But as all moms know, reality doesn't matter. Even though I didn't know her yet, she was mine. And rationalizing didn't take away the nagging fear that my world might crumble. Maybe I was too blessed? My life too good? 

As many of you know, January 31, 2020, Lilly was born. Screaming. The NICU team left after a thorough check and Lilly showed off her beautiful breathing skills. In the hospital, she had an Xray, and we talked to a VCU surgeon about our course of action. CPAMs are relatively rare though, and this surgeon had done "more than her entire team combined" meaning: 5. After digging, we ended up at UVA with Dr. Gander who had done a whopping 20+ in his career. We set up a CT scan and waited.

Waiting was filled with that normal new mom tic to check if your child is breathing but on crack. An incessant compulsion, afraid that, in a moment, her lung would forget to work. She continued to wow us though. Hitting all her milestones, and growing. I half expected them to say the mass was gone at the CT scan.

It wasn't. 

And by the day of surgery, it had grown. The plan still, as it had always been, for 49 weeks, was that Lilly would go in with two lungs and come out with less.

And that is why I've had such trouble processing this. 

Right now, Lilly is playing in her activity center and spinning (somewhat recklessly) around to touch every item. She's smiling and ever interested in our cats.

How is it possible that everything we expected, all the pain, the tears, the stress about what her life may look like, could be gone in 8 hours?  

Lilly has two lungs. Big, perfect lungs (one with a titanium clip on the outside of it stopping blood flow to a now-removed mass). She can be a marathon runner (though Benjamin and I still find that highly unlikely). And after 49 weeks, I have to adjust to the news that I craved. 

It's a miracle. I know that. I'm in a group of women who have babies with CPAMs, and I see their pictures of their tiny humans, whisked into emergency surgery, needing help with breathing, with similar initial diagnoses to hers. 

I don't know what I would have done without every person in my life, and in the extended fringes of my life. How do you collectively thank every person who prayed for Lilly? Who checked in? Who told you that they cared so much about our Lilly? 

There just isn't a good way to do that.

And if you've even made it this far...Lilly is sitting on her dad's lap, blissfully unconcerned about all of this, and I will make sure she knows that you prayed. That you cared. That you showed up in our lives, over and over and over again. That without this team of people, her parents wouldn't have made it through. You've helped save our hearts when we needed it most. And while Lilly won't remember, we always will.