Beginnings

If I begin with the very beginning of my life, I must first address the fact that I was born on January 14th, 1985. This was fourteen weeks before my projected arrival on April 19th, so needless to say, my birth was anything but ordinary. My mother did not have a twenty weeks ultrasound, so doctors missed the fact that she had placenta previa. This resulted in early delivery. Mom was losing blood at the same rate that she was receiving transfusions, and for a time, both of our lives hung precariously in the balance. Mom was eventually stabilized, but it was several days before she was well enough to see the 2 lb. 2 ounce girl she had brought into this world. My chances of survival were slim, hovering around 5%. My father had been informed that even if I beat the odds, severe brain damage would leave me completely debilitated. I have no memory of those early days, but pictures tell the story of a baby that could fit in the palm of your hand. There are images of a tiny figure in an incubator, almost indistinguishable beneath tubes and medical tape.

It seems that I didn't appreciate the oxygen supply that was so essential to my underdeveloped lungs. My mother would later describe moments where I would grasp the tube with little fingers, become very still, then jerk with all of my might. It is hard for me to believe that the fragile being in those photographs is me. It was three months before I was allowed to go home. Even then, I wore a monitor to alert my parents when I stopped breathing. My mother had long-since returned to work, and I began staying with my paternal grandparents during the day.

There is a worn stuffed rabbit that resides on a shelf in my closet. It still tinkles out "Here Comes Peter Cotton Tail" and stares at me with friendly brown eyes. He was my first constant companion during those long weeks of isolation. I sometimes think about those first three months in such an institutional setting. There was attention from nurses, the continual hum of a medical environment, and visits from my parents, but yet how lonely this world must have seemed. Even now, my heart goes out to the NICU babies whose closest friends are the machines that keep them alive. I still bear marks on my ankles, wrist, stomach, and head from tubes and IVs, but the most interesting reminder is one that is seldom noticed. Despite the fact that he was performing emergency heart surgery for patent ductus arteriosus, a knowing doctor looked into my future and saw a self-conscious teenage girl. His knife traced the curve of my shoulder blade instead of creating a line down the center of my chest. I don't know his name, but I would love to shake his hand. He not only gave me the gift of life, but presented me with my favorite scar.

And so, I began.