In 2017, I went into pre-term labor with my twins at 23 weeks and two days. Deeming it a “late-term miscarriage,” doctors advised my husband and I to terminate the pregnancy as our twins only had a five percent chance of survival. Believing there was a higher power who could save our children, my husband and I decided to move forward with an emergency C-section. Then, at 8:47 pm on a Monday, Sophia and Emmanuel came into the world weighing one lb. and four oz. each.
In the months following, our world would all but come tumbling down around us. We ended up losing Sophia at 29 weeks, and our miracle Emmanuel would spend nearly 11 months in the hospital, eventually coming home with complex medical needs for which he needs nursing to this day.
While caring for Emmanuel that first year, we endured extreme financial hardship. Everything seemed to go wrong all at once. We were late on our mortgage several times, forcing me to return to work during Emmanuel’s hospitalization (most mothers in the NICU were not working). As first-generation immigrants and first-generation college graduates, we had no one to fall back on; our families could not afford to support us financially.
Things only seemed to get worse as the journey went on. I was at a loss when Emmanuel was transferred to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) in December 2017. With little to no money in the bank and living over 70 miles away, I had no idea how I would support my baby in the NICU and continue to work. Then entered the Ronald McDonald House of Philadelphia (RMH Phila).
At the recommendation of a colleague, I signed up for the waitlist at RMH Phila and was miraculously granted a space three days later. For four months, I commuted three hours to work round trip, stopping by CHOP to visit my son at night. RMH provided counseling, community, and supportive aides that ensured I could get to and from work and stay healthy while going through challenging life circumstances. They treated every family in the place with dignity and respect. They put great thought and care into their outreach initiatives. At a time when my family felt forgotten, they showed up.
Once leaving RMH, we committed to giving back to the organization yearly with our loved ones through a small group called Manny’s Village in honor of my son. The lessons I learned in that valley season revolutionized how I approached my work and supported my students and members of my church congregation. Like many others, my family was one tragedy away from job loss and homelessness. Mercy kept us. The compassion and kindness of organizations like RMH shifted our narrative. Today, as someone enters your agency or establishment seeking support, remember that you might be the difference for them, as RMH was for my family and me.
