It was a Friday, April 24, 2015; I was twenty weeks and four days gestation. Only halfway through my pregnancy. My unborn child, Noah, was kicking my butt all day while I was at work. I worked in customer service as a dispatcher for a transportation company that carried patients with state insurance to and from their doctor’s appointments. I was ready to go home and relax for the weekend. Looking at the time, it was almost 6 p.m. I decided to take my last break since no calls came through. I excused myself from my workstation and told my co-worker that sat next to me I was glad my shift was almost over. Needless to say, that was the last time she saw me. In the break room, my boss was coming off his break. Somehow, we struck up a conversation. Because I sat in a cubicle, I decided to stand to give my butt a rest, and that’s when I felt the wetness between my legs. At first, it felt like a trickle and then a gush. Immediately, I paused mid-conversation as the horrible realization hit me. I was bleeding, or my water had broken, and I was only 20 weeks gestation. This story follows my son Noah and his 120 days spent in the neonatal intensive care unit. He was born at one pound three ounces.