The Tiniest of Prayers: God's Miracles

By David C Deitz and Sarah G. Moody

Through our emotional journey of life inside the neonatal intensive care unit, reminisce with us our painful days fighting against doctors’ diagnoses and predictions, as we learned to trust even greater in the power of God and His healing miracles. Feel the emotions we felt when we heard the possible fate of our child explained by science, but witnessing firsthand events unexplainable through medicine. To help families in situations like ours, to bring encouragement and God to a world of hopelessness, open up the amazing story of our son, whose only explanation for being alive is through . . .
“The Power of Prayer.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483577500

Book preview

Table of Contents

NEW BEGINNINGS

A DIFFERENT SITUATION

I FORGOT ALL OUR BLESSINGS

YOU CAN NEVER BE FULLY PREPARED

UNTIL I SEE YOU AGAIN

BEFORE YOU WERE FORMED

THIS IS OUR SICK BABY

A MOTHER’S TOUCH

IS THIS REAL LIFE?

A HOPE FOR TOMORROW

QUARANTINED

UPDATES

©2016 David C. Deitz. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-48357-749-4 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-48357-750-0 (ebook)

SPECIAL THANKS TO:

God

for giving us the miracle that is Hunter.

Prayer

Everyone that said a prayer for Hunter and us.

Family and Friends

that took the time to come and visit us during the 2 months in the NICU in Charleston. You will never know the strength that you provided us with each visit.

Grace M. Deitz

for showing me that I needed to write a book to tell the story because facts do not tell a story.

Never Lose Hope & Always Trust God

David c Deitz

And though your beginning was small, your latter days will be very great.

(Job 8:7 ESV)

CHAPTER 1

NEW BEGINNINGS

The winding highway that perfectly traces the outline of the mountain we’ve traveled so many times before was taking us to the destination we knew so well. The destination was always the same but the journey, this time, was different. Outlined through the sunset, for miles, breathtaking valleys and rivers pierced through the landscape in a way that proved God existed. Each turn around the jutting, rocky mountain, climbing higher and higher, was like coming one step closer to reaching heaven. The infamous sycamore trees for miles, lining the face of the largest rock formations in the world, mountains, and perfect photo-op moments, always dancing in rhythm to the same mile markers and rest stops along the way. It was the place I called home for so many years as a child and never missed an opportunity to visit. The place where Mom’s homemade bread was waiting for me on the table, and the all too familiar smell of home lingered in the laundry and the outside air: West Virginia—my home, my family, my roots.

I looked in the rearview mirror to check on my boy. The sound of his feet bouncing up and down against the edge of his car seat always caught my attention when we traveled. Sometimes he did it to entertain himself, other times it was our clear sign he was ready to get out of the confinement. We should’ve known, from those moments, he was a wanderer. He simply longed to look out the windows at the passing cars and beautiful landscape. The movement of the trees and the bright colors of the changing leaves always mesmerized him. He just wanted the freedom to explore the world, and he finally had that chance. His soft, not completely convincing whines, this time, were proof of his impatience and irritation. Most of the time he traveled very well, but today, he was just as ready as I was to get to Granny and

PawPaw’s house.

Not too much longer, Hunter. I always reassured him, as if he could understand what I was saying. He was only an infant.

What I thought were convincing words never could settle his anticipation of getting out of the car. All I could do was drive on while my wife, Stacey, offered snacks and juice. You can only refill a sippy cup so many times until it is time to take a rest. Glancing back in the rearview more times than I was actually watching the road, I couldn’t believe how far we had come.

We’re just waiting for the doctor to arrive and then we’ll begin, Said the anesthesiologist.

We were in the place where the scariest part of our lives began—the hospital—that would become well known to Stacey and me. It began on June 17, 2000, the day none of us expected to be the arrival date of our long-awaited son. I couldn’t believe what was happening. In a matter of twenty minutes, my wife had gone from peeing in a cup to lying in the operating room forced to deliver. The scariest part of it all was there was nothing I could do about it. Less than a day ago, the doctor had assured me everything was fine. We followed our routine checkups and Stacey listened to the doctor when she told her to take it easy. I wasn’t sure how to feel. Clearly, everything wasn’t fine.

We should have come sooner. I always thought with deep regret. I should have taken this more serious. But how was I supposed to know? If the doctor wasn’t concerned, why would I have reason to be concerned? But if the doctor didn’t have a reason to be concerned, why are we where we are right now?

Everything happened so fast I was not sure if I was breathing. The evening began at home and ended in the operating room. There was never enough time to process everything that was changing so quickly.

The doctor quickly entered the room while putting on her mask. One of the nurses placed a mask over Stacey’s face as another tried to force me out of the room. The other nurses surrounded my wife, each quickly performing their own assigned task to prepare Stacey for surgery.

I am not leaving! My wife can’t have our baby yet, it’s too soon! I demanded with worrisome feelings. I couldn’t leave my wife like this. I couldn’t walk away knowing they were taking our child. I couldn’t believe everything was going to be fine.

The nurse refused to listen to me as she continued to push me out of the operating room. The doctor came over to assist her. She knew I would listen to her.

David, the doctor began.

This was the doctor Stacey and I had grown so fond of—the one we had visited for so many weeks throughout Stacey’s pregnancy—the one we trusted, the one we loved, the one who promised to take care of us, and our child while he was growing inside of Stacey.

We have to operate to save your wife’s life.

With that, I was in the hall and the operating door slammed in my face. Save my wife’s life?

My emotions took a step back.

I pondered the intent of the doctor’s statement. Save my wife’s life … I finally accepted things were serious.

What about Hunter’s life? My son. My baby son who I’ve only met through blurry ultrasound photos and heartbeat melodies played each time we went to the doctor.

Is my wife going to die?

I stood in the hallway staring at the door in complete awe and shock. I had no idea what was wrong with my wife or my baby. I had no idea if either one of them were going to survive. I had no idea what caused this to happen. I wondered if there was something I could have done different or something we had done wrong. Was this something the doctors see all the time and everything will be fine or are they in just as much shock as we are? The unknowns were so overwhelming and I didn’t have anyone to be with me.

I felt completely alone.

The sun was just over the horizon about to disappear in its game of hide-and-seek it always plays with the mountain peaks. Stacey, lost in a book as always, propped her feet up on the dash and supported the comfort of her arms with her pillow that lie in her lap the whole trip. The only time it ever moved was when she’d lean the seat back, prop the pillow in the crease between the door and her chair, pull the blanket just up under her nose, and drift off to sleep dreaming of things I could only imagine. Happy things, I hoped, now that our nightmare was over. Now that we were back to our normal lives—now that Hunter had survived.

Just as we turned the corner down the long road to Mom and Dad’s house Hunter finally stopped whimpering. Even just an infant, he knew where we were. We pulled up to the driveway that paved the way to one of the only houses on the dead-end road. One neighbor’s house greeted you at the corner of the main road, with houses on both side of the road, with Dad and Mom’s home on the right side, first house on the top of the hill. It was nice visiting the country, it was everything I was used to and loved. Having moved to the beach nearly four years before, the familiarity of the trees, home to the creatures meant for hunting, and the quiet stillness in the air was calling my name.

The engine turned off, and the lights were shining brightly through the front windows, signaling Mom and Dad of our arrival. Stacey adjusted herself to carefully gather our belongings, and Hunter, before walking inside. I climbed out, stiff-legged, stretched for a good while to loosen up, then walked to the back of the car to unload the travel-able part of our lives. Packing up and living out of a suitcase, we were used to it now. While she carried the restless wonderer in her arms, I armpit bear-hugged our pillows and Hunter’s blanket while carrying the suitcases. I would’ve thought by now all our travel gear would come with wheels, but we hadn’t yet reached that full luxury.

Mom welcomed us with open arms and kisses as she does every time we visit. Except now when we visit, her routine greeting doesn’t end with her usual how was your trip interrogation. It ends with her cradling the baby as if each time he comes to visit is his first. She savors her moments with him since we live over eight hours away in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. She savors her moments with him now that he is out of the hospital and no longer sick.

Dad’s house, constructed with Mom’s interior design tastes, but dad’s carpenter hobbies, made the building home. The old two-story white country house where I was raised was, over the years, transformed into a beautiful two-story solid brick masterpiece crafted with Dad’s signature and expertise. It was in this house that I spent countless hours after school helping Dad dig out the basement and create for our family a home to bring my own children to visit. Fix-it-up projects Dad created to pass the time, or simple home improvements made at the desire of my mother, it was no wonder I grew up to become an architect. I loved the freedom of the mind wondering through possible and impossible creations. It was no question where Hunter got his love of wonder.

Lewisburg, West Virginia couldn’t have been a more perfect fit for me growing up: a small town surrounded by the countryside, hunting and fishing, and Mom’s famous cooking always waiting for us at home. Lewisburg was all I knew.

My brother, George, was the oldest of the three of us and, from before I could remember, he was my best friend and role model. George always included me in whatever he was doing. We spent more hours than we could count outside in the dirt catching bugs and building tree forts. We’d go hunting at the crack of dawn and then fishing until the sun went to bed. George taught me so many things about the great outdoors. Mostly valuable lessons like how to pee outside without Mom catching us, and how to build a sturdy tree fort out of sticks and leaves. The dirt on our feet always proved how each hour of the day outdoors was never taken for granted.

My dad, George Ashby Deitz, was also a major part of our outdoor extravaganzas. Dad never missed the opportunity to drag George and I out of bed before the sun could rise in order to sit in the woods looking for the next big hunt. Dad played the main role in teaching me how to really hunt and fish. He bought me my first gun, took me on my first hunting trip, and was the first to congratulate me on my first kill. He never missed an opportunity to teach me something new, and I never missed an opportunity to learn from him.

Next is our baby sister, Patricia. She came along not too long after I was born and sooner than later joined in on some of our tiny adventures. Although she spent most of her time learning things from Mom at home, George and I took advantage of every opportunity to take our sister outside in the dirt. We taught her to hunt and fish, and a few outdoor activities eventually piqued her interest, but she was a typical girl. More excited about Barbie’s than a bow, she was never fully committed to the outdoorsy life like George and me. In spite of our different interests, however, George and I could never justify letting our little sister grow up without some knowledge of life in the woods or on the river. She learned how to catch a fish and shoot a gun, and even accompanied us on some of our hunting trips. She may not have spent all her time with us, but I treasure all the mischief the three of us created together while breathing in the great outdoor air.

One of my fondest memories with George was the summer he and I went fishing with our Great-Uncle James. We were just young, energetic, dirty-faced little boys with nothing on our minds except escaping the house to get into some trouble. As we headed down to the creek behind Great-Uncle James’ house, I had a fishing pole in one hand and my Great-Uncle James was holding the other. He was our most famous hunting and fishing buddy—second to my dad; spending time with him was a routine. As we cast our poles over and over, we waited for a simple nibble from any size fish we could get. I secretly hoped my line would magically attract the biggest fish anyone had ever seen, but I was content to catch anything. We sat on a giant rock on the bank of the creek all afternoon, cast out all the worm bait we had caught just days before, waiting for trout and redeyes to fall for our tricks. A few nibbles here and there but every one of them managed to escape the hook. But it didn’t matter. We were spending time together and that’s what I loved most. Anytime I wanted to go outside, Uncle James was there to accompany me. Our adventures together were never wasted nor taken for granted; I could never get enough of spending time with my Great-Uncle James.

Great-Uncle James was a man any decent human being would admire. Through our time together, he taught me much more than how to hunt and fish. He spent time with my mother growing up, always making sure she had a father figure in her life. Never a burden or inconvenience, my mother was like his daughter. He was there from the time she was little through the rough teenage years, and all the years beyond. He was there for her first day of school, her first date, and high school graduation. He couldn’t have shown me more what it meant to be a man. He was always there for her, and I always admired him for that.

Even though I spent just as much time outside with George as I did inside designing and drawing, time with dad certainly added to my experience and admiration of architecture. I had a deeply bound passion I could not ignore. I loved creating buildings and landscapes I hoped to one day see built. Future homes, hide-and-seek nooks for a family with children, playgrounds, businesses, skyscrapers, buildings for fun, buildings for work—I loved it all. In addition, spending time with dad fixing up the house was just as fulfilling as spending the day in the woods: that finished project, that perfectly crafted, hand-designed project, and that unique father–son creation you couldn’t help but feel proud of was priceless. By the sixth grade, my future career wonder had given birth to my reality of becoming an architect.

By the time, I entered high school I was already looking for architectural programs at the surrounding colleges in West Virginia. A few in-state schools sparked my interest, but several out-of-state schools also caught my eye. By the time I was a senior, I applied for and was accepted into Fairmont State, where I spent two years before transferring to the architectural program at the University of Tennessee. I spent many late nights in the architectural building finishing up projects and drawings of my latest projects; but I enjoyed it all. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like too much time had passed before I was ready to graduate, and in 1993 I joyfully accepted my diploma. All my hard work finally paid off as I jumped right into the real world doing what I loved most. When that passion of mine landed us an opportunity in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, I couldn’t pass up the huge arena of architectural opportunity. I accepted the job knowing a popular city like Myrtle Beach could offer more job opportunities than my little hometown in West Virginia. It was exciting to think about working in an area where not only residential houses and businesses were constantly popping up, but new vacation homes and schools were constantly in demand. The realm of creativity was nearly limitless. The innate dreams of building a successful future with the one I love grew brighter with each project that crossed my desk. It was hard, at first, to leave behind our friends and family, but Stacey and I both knew this choice would change our lives. So we settled into our new home at the beach and began our lives together.

When it was time for dinner, Mom called to Dad and me in the living room where we always situated ourselves when it was too dark to work on a project. Dad’s workshop was just down the road from the house, but the sun provided the best kind of light to see exactly what you were doing. Exhausted from our day of travel, I lounged around on the couch, mindlessly watching some show on the television that always seemed to be playing in the background when we were around. Mom and Stacey hung out in the kitchen with Hunter. In between stirring the green beans and buttering the biscuits, Mom played and coaxed Hunter into sweet baby laughter while he sat in his high chair. Mom never let Hunter go hungry when we were at her house. He was always snacking away at something. Once Dad and I made it into the kitchen, all the food was ready to eat and placed neatly on the table in glass bowls and serving dishes. Everyone always made their way over to the table and chose their seat. With extended hands wishing for a warm embrace, Mom motioned for our routine thanks to God for providing yet another meal and another day of safety to our family. As she had done so many time before, Mom led us all, with