From Contractions to NICU: Our 26-Week Preterm Pre-Birth Story

You don't choose to be born and go straight to a hospital bed where you're being connected through various medical devices all over your body without spending even one minute on your mother's hand or skin.

You don't choose to be a parent who's baby being taken away from the second they are out of the whomb.

Of course, we didn't know all of that before going to labor. We had no clue about what's coming.

There's nothing quite like being jolted awake at 2am by your partner saying, "I think I have pain." Ah yes, exactly how you want to start your Sunday—with mysterious ticklish pain that may or may not be contractions. Just another delightful surprise in the rollercoaster called pregnancy.

Dana's first contractions occurring out of noweherre, in the middle of the night

The stakes were already comically high. Three weeks earlier, at week 23, Dana had undergone cerclage surgery with just 1 cm of cervix holding on for dear life. The doctors—with their impeccable bedside manner—gave us the coin-flip prognosis: 50% preterm, 50% full term. Nowhere in this mathematical equation did "26 weeks" feature as an option. Funny how statistics work when they're happening to you.

By now, we were experts in the emergency hospital dash. Small backpack? Check. Minimum essentials? Check. Delusional belief these were just "fake contractions"? Double check.

Nothing prepares you for a doctor muttering "you are dilating, you're 3 cm dilated" at 3am. That, my friends, is what we call a life-altering moment.

Heat waves flood your body, vision narrows to a tunnel, and dizziness hits like you've chugged tequila on an empty stomach. Yet somehow, you maintain poker face perfection because your partner is visibly shaking. The risk you feared—the one with a measly 0.88% chance in NY state—is suddenly your reality. Welcome to the exclusive club nobody wants to join.

Your thoughts start playing full-contact sports in your head, smashing into each other creating chaos. Your stomach apparently decides nutrition is optional, and you find yourself running on air and water alone. Imagine your life ending overnight—not literally, but the life you planned, the one you expected—gone in an instant.

The silver lining? Hospitals don't give you time to spiral. Doctors parade in and out, modestly assuring you that you're in "the best hands possible." How comforting.

Then comes the medication carnival: Magnesium for baby's brain protection and anti-contraction meds to buy precious time. Science, for all its miracle-working reputation, has surprisingly limited tricks up its sleeve here. Those anti-contraction medications once administered for weeks? Now limited to days because—plot twist—they might risk the baby's brain. Always the brain, always the most terrifying concern.

Every hour became a contraction-watching horror show. We looked at each other with expressions combining depression and terror in ways I didn't know faces could move. Sometimes wordless for hours, other times crying and talking non-stop. Every caregiver who entered became an unwitting therapist: "Have you seen cases like ours with good endings?", "Do you get 26 weekers often in this hospital?", "Is it possible that we'll be able to prolong the pregnancy few weeks on this status?" We hunted reassurance like it was the last roll of toilet paper in a pandemic. Even Rabbi Yisroel and his wife Reizel joined our desperate plea brigade, guiding our prayers to ensure proper divine reception.

The Sunday-to-Thursday timeline was packed with plot twists. Initially admitted to Labor and Delivery as a "just in case" measure while doctors battled contractions. Dana received steroid shots—two rounds, 24 hours apart—to turbocharge those tiny lungs. By Tuesday, contractions vanished, earning us a transfer to the High Risk Department. Our euphoria was palpable. This tiny room suddenly seemed like a charming Upper East Side AirBnB adventure!

That fantasy lasted less than one night. Evening brought pain, monitors returned, and Magnesium made its unwelcome comeback.

At 3am, the Senior Resident Doctor rushed in with the kind of look that makes your stomach drop, sitting on the floor like she was delivering a death notice. "The baby's heart rate is falling," "We are not sure, but this may be because you are dilating"... "Please pack your things, we want to bring you back to the L&D room".

I wonder what my own heart monitor would have shown—racing pulse, spinning head, nausea, cold skin, frozen joints. A total system collapse with each worried doctor's face. Maybe someday I'll write about how doctors made me feel—it's rarely what they say but how they deliver it. Not an accusation, just an observation of their enormous power over patient psychology.

Senior Resident Doctor delivers some worries to Dana and Nate

Wednesday night gave us false hope—a pain-free evening filled with optimistic chatter about how we'd one day laugh about all this. Dana's words—"I feel good, I feel like we'll spend here a couple of weeks and everything will be just fine"—wrapped me in rare warmth and security. We watched hilarious American TV shows (who actually watches these normally?), snuggled on her broken hospital bed, waking for routine checks but otherwise enjoying relative peace. Another win, I thought. Every day without labor is victory! Cue dramatic irony.

Thursday morning dawned deceptively beautiful. Our tiny window framed a sliver of blue sky and sunshine, promising another day of pregnancy-prolonging triumph. For the first time, I ventured out—a brave explorer seeking Dana's beloved Iced Matcha. Walking Manhattan's Upper East Side streets, I confidently told my family how Dana would hang on for weeks more.

Returning victorious with matcha and croissant, I witnessed the turning point.

Nate praying on a beautiful Thursday full of hope

Pain returned—constant, rhythmic, every few minutes. The nurse summoned Dana's doctor, who confirmed the worst: full dilation. I tracked contractions, noting they occurred precisely every four minutes—Dana's favorite number. Coincidence or cosmic joke? You decide.

The doctor delivered the philosophical bomb: "where science book end the belief book starts." Seriously? Doctors suggesting prayer? My fury mixed with fear, yet part of me wanted birth to happen, to end Dana's suffering. By 1pm, Dana entered the surgery room for vaginal delivery while I donned sterile attire. The room teemed with medical personnel—nurses, doctors, NICU staff—triggering my darkest fears.

Surreal operations room with dozens of hospital caregivers and NICU team pushing Dana to PUSH

Two compassionate doctors hugged me as I wept in the corner, silently communicating that I needed to compose myself before Dana saw me. I stepped into the hallway for a proper breakdown, concerning passersby who received my unconvincing "I'm fine" gestures. Even recalling this moment brings back physical symptoms—heat waves, forehead pain, body tremors, inexplicably painful knees. When reality corners you, forward is the only option. I returned, grabbed Dana's cold hand, pressed it to my heart, and looked into her terrified eyes: "it's happening," "what we have been waiting for for so long" "our baby is coming, you got this, I'm here with you."

Then, birth happened.