Most moms will agree pregnancy and labor can be a scary time and all you want is to deliver a healthy baby, kicking and screaming.
But one mom was faced with the unthinkable when her baby boy was born with medical issues that left him on a ventilator.
Lisa Hough shared an image of her sweet baby grandson born to her daughter Chelsea and also shared the unthinkable tough decision that her daughter had been faced with.
The mom of three and nana of two said her grandson Karson had been born with many medical complications.
“The only way to describe what has happened is that this beautiful baby boy has suffered two very rare traumatic conditions that are completely unrelated to one another,” Nana Lisa shared on her Facebook page.
She added her newborn baby grandson had suffered a “hemorrhage in the left temporal lobe” and had also been diagnosed with a rare, genetic, metabolic disorder called Non-ketotic hyperglycinemia (NKH).
“His case is presented as severe and would cause him to be severely neurologically impaired – functioning at a 2-3 month old level at best for his lifetime,” Lisa wrote.
His mom, given all the information from the medical staff around her, made the incredibly tough decision to take him off life support.
Lisa wrote of the heartbreaking moment they had to say goodbye to their sweet little one.
“While we weren’t ready to say goodbye to Karson, we had come to terms with the inevitable. We were given 10 minutes after withdrawing intensive care and the ventilator and told he would not breath on his own and to expect his heart to stop within those 10 minutes.
But, according to Lisa, it seemed “God had other plans” and said she and her daughter witnessed a miracle.
“He immediately started breathing on his own once the ventilator was removed, heart rate and oxygen stabilized, and here we are 5 hours later with this miracle baby that we were told would never breath, swallow, have gag reflexes, or even survive. He is breathing unassisted.
“He is swallowing. He is surviving. He even has slightly opened his eyes a couple times today.”
She said his doctors had no explanation for what happened saying no medical or science data supports this little fighter surviving; the only explanation they have is that it’s a miracle.
“I’m not sure why I ever thought we were so underserving of a miracle…and I’m not sure how long we have with him, but we have him now. And now we will take,” Lisa wrote.
Finally, on March 1, she and her family were given the joyous news that their tiny bundle of joy would be coming home that week.
“Every day, I am brought to my knees, and just when I think God is done, I am quickly reminded that he isn’t….I have no words for my gratitude and I will praise Him for as long as I have air in my lungs for giving Karson his,” Lisa wrote.
From her very first post, commenters were fully supportive of the journey, celebrating the survival of Karson with more than 30,000 reactions to the post announcing the wonderful news that Karson survived and is thriving
Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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