Our dear friends Jeremy and Hannah welcomed their sweet son, Hank, into the world on February 24th, nearly 6 weeks earlier than expected. Hank had a challenging arrival and suffered a series of complications. Hank spent the first 5 weeks of his life in the NICU in Boise while Jeremy and Hannah were living at the Ronald MacDonald House spending their days learning how to care for Hank and monitoring his progress.

Last week Jeremy and Hannah were able to bring Hank home to John Day, Oregon. They are now working on settling into a routine as a new family. Many of Hank's future challenges and obstacles are still unknown. Although Hank has a long road ahead of him, he has continued to wow us with his strength. Equally, Jeremy and Hannah have demonstrated what true love and devotion look like.

As friends, we have fallen head over heels in love with Hank and are rooting for healing and a life of happiness. So many of us want to show Hank, Jeremy, and Hannah that we are on this path with them, and that they are part of a supportive community, a loving family. As Jeremy says in his words below what we can do is offer our understanding, be real, have compassion, and hold hope.

Please help us to alleviate a portion of their financial burden, offering Jeremy and Hannah space and time to devote to Hank. Our community can come together to give (any amount) to help Hank on this journey and to support Jeremy and Hannah. If you are able to donate, please consider doing so.

With love from friends of Hank



Words from Jeremy:

Here is life. His name is Henry Frederick Mothershead. Hannah and I have been waiting anxiously for him to arrive since last summer. He was due around April second, but his early arrival seems to have been our first reminder that things don't always work out as planned. When mom's water broke on February 21st, the luxury of a well planned birth experience went out the window. Henry's room wasn't done, the dishes were still waiting in the sink, and the bathroom was covered in amniotic fluid. After an evening trip for her on the lifelight and a record drive to boise for me, we'd still have three more days of trying to induce labor and attempting to reclaim some feeling of control.

On February 24th, at 1730, henry was born, blue skinned and silent. I thought my heart couldn't drop any lower after the high of being there for Hannah while she went through this incredible experience, but it did, until the waiting NICU staff, with seemingly supernatural competence, suctioned the fluid from his airway and administered oxygen, turning him a healthy rose pink in just moments. It seemed I couldn't get higher.

One day later, little Hank wasn't really moving or responding at all, and this was unusual. An MRI showed evidence of a profound and prolonged hypoxic insult to his entire brain, at some time within the last five to seven days (that we may never know the cause of), and the staff informed us that in all probability, he wouldn't survive. I immediately felt dizzy and nearly lost consciousness while being caught by the doctor. I have the ER admittance bracelet to prove it. It's a reaction that some people may have in times of mental trauma, called the parasympathetic acute stress response. We learned about it in our wilderness first responder class, but I really never expected to know it so well.

Two days later and my little baby boy is showing himself again. More awareness, more movement, some little noises (though no crying). Eleven days later, we've changed many wonderfully soiled diapers and spent more time by his tiny bed than is reasonable. He's had another MRI, and some time hooked to an EEG monitor. The news so far, is bad. He acts just like a normal pre-term baby, tracking sounds and objects, flinging his tiny limbs anywhere he pleases, and having a generally very healthy body. That makes the news even harder to deal with. The damaged parts of his brain are largely dissolving, to be reabsorbed, and he will never have them again. The professional outlook indicates the great probability that he will live with what is called the 'worst case scenario'. That means a likelihood of very severe motor and cognitive impairment, requiring a great deal of dedicated assistance, for the rest of his life. He may never speak or communicate, walk, eat with his mouth, or form any meaningful connection with anyone, not even us, as long as he lives. It is a living nightmare to attempt to cope with the realities of this. Our past dreams for our lives with our son mean nothing anymore. We will have to dream new ones.

NOW. THIS IS IMPORTANT. If you had trouble reading through that, know that it is not my intent to unload this on you. Know that we do not seek pity. You are welcome to send us thoughts and prayers. What we do need is your understanding. We have a path in front of us that we do not know, and that thankfully, many of you do not know either. When you see us, it's still us. We are not fragile. We have hope, for what it's worth, and we have more love in our hearts than I ever knew we could stand. What we need is for you to see us as we were before, and as we are now, and realize that we are the same as we ever were, with a few more miles. Someday we may need some help from you. Do it only if you can do it out of love; if you do it out of guilt, we will know, and it will feel bad for all of us. And please don't make a big deal of it.

Let this post serve to heal a little of the neglect I've had in not answering the communications of some of my closest friends and family. It's really just too much for text or a phone call while we're still in the NICU. Please understand if I do not update you until I see you in person and you specifically ask me. Please remember that everyone you see has a personal struggle. Please have compassion. That's it for now

Love, 
Hannah, Jeremy, and Hank