Get a breath...live.

I was born dead. Not a very glamorous start, blue, wrinkly, and no heartbeat. My mother always said that I was her miracle baby. When I was small this somehow gave me the idea that I was worth something, I had purpose, and was meant to be here. But age makes you feel that that might be a form of pride, that really you are just like everyone else and by some freak of nature you beat the odds and pulled through.

My parents are remarkable people and didn’t seem to do anything normally. I was conceived in the middle of some African desert probably in a tent, camped out beside wild animals that really enjoyed eating people; nothing like a little fear to shake up the love life. This was the same trip that my parents Land Rover broke down in the middle of the Serengeti, where wild Hyenas’ stalked my father as he tried to fix the car, and my two older brothers cried in the back seat as small toddlers afraid of the lions roar in the bush. This was the same trip that my father, in his characteristic pursuit of perfection in all things, in effort for perfect photograph, got charged by an elephant, rhinoceros, and ran over by a giant silver back gorilla; with my very pregnant mother in observance. It’s not to shocking then that my mother’s pregnancy was complicated.

My parents had taken a short stint as missionary’s in Rwanda, Africa, where my grandparents had been working as the same for the past 15 years. My two older brothers were two and four at the time and my mother was thrilled to be expecting another, maybe this would be the girl she longed for. It was rough from the start. Only a couple months into her first term she had a massive amount of blood loss and severe cramping, a bad sign, she knew from a previous miscarriage. A trip to the international hospital confirmed her fears as the doctor shock his head and told her she had lost her baby. “We need to do a DNC, its best for you and will clean out any toxins that may be a harm to you”, he said. My mother is a firm believer in the natural course of all things. “If is bad”, she said, “it will come out on its own”.

A while later she was back, this time because she was still sick every morning and wanted to know why. Wouldn’t you know it, I was still hanging on.

It was most likely in an attempt to stay within the comforts of my mother’s womb that I managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck multiple times. Or maybe it was an indication of my early interest in rock-climbing, using what was available as a belay device. Either way what was supposed to be the link to my life force became the thing that would take it.
Before the invention of high-tech camera’s that can assess the problems and issues with babies in the womb, the doctors were forced to make their best guesses. On repeated visits in and out of the European hospital in Rwanda, my mother was told that her child did not seem normal. The heart-beat was irregular and didn’t sound right. Understanding the negative affects of a dysfunctional heart in development the doctors warned her of the chances her child would be abnormal. Abortion was always an option they said. “Sometimes it’s the best for both the parents and the child”. “We’ll take it in any shape” my mother replied. Realizing that this pregnancy would be complicated, my parents made the decision to return home to the United States.

On delivery day, July 28th, my mother went into contractions, but something was terribly wrong. With each contraction, my heart rate plummeted sometimes almost disappearing on the black and green monitor. It was clear to the doctors this was an emergency situation and that my life was in the balance, C-section was in order and quickly.

I have pictures of that operation. I don’t quite understand how my dad did this, but he suited up and treated the whole thing as a photo opp; my mom out cold, the doctors slicing her right down the middle. They were in such a hurry that they cut through a major artery, sending blood in a pulsating geyser across the room where it hit the wall in a grotesques rendition of modern art.

For several pictures all you see is blood, then a small bluish lump. That’s me! No heart beat, not breathing, strangled by my umbilical cord. It wasn’t that long, maybe several seconds, but to my dad, it must have been a long time before he heard that first scream. My first lusty breath, granted by the skill and persistence of the doctors and I imagine my own will to survive. It’s in each of us, no matter how small, beat the odds, get a breath, live.

There I was, alive and breathing. The girl they were hoping for. Back from the dead, ready to take on the world. As long as taking on the world included sleeping, eating, burping, and pooping, and as long as my parents were on hand to meet my every need. I was ready.

When my mother came to, her joy on seeing me alive couldn’t help but be dampened by the caution and concern the doctor’s showed about the consequences of lack of oxygen to my brain for the first several moments of life. What the ramifications of that would be, would have to be seen over time. My parents spent the first several months of my life looking for defects and dysfunctions’ in their child. Over time I would develop some… I seemed to be incapable of keeping my room clean during my teenage years...