In my twenties I was convinced that I would die at age 32. I couldn’t explain it; I just had a feeling. A nagging, but surprisingly not haunting, feeling. I am serious when I say that I was totally okay with it. After all, I believed I would go to heaven even though I lived that decade like a rock star who might not even see tomorrow.
By the time age thirty rolled around – a milestone that I declared my coming of age – I had come back to my religion. I married Andy at age 31, and on our one year anniversary – one month before my 32nd birthday – we were expecting our first baby girl to join us in the world within weeks. My new life was just beginning, so to be honest I had not given another thought to the end of my life for some time.
Jaden’s birth on July 17, 2003 was a struggle for both of us. After seventeen hours of labor, she was finally ready to make an appearance. I began to experience severe muscle pain in my neck when it came time to push, so the concerned anesthesiologist turned off the epidural. Three hours later, a weak, 5 lb 13 oz baby girl was born. She had a head full of black hair and sounded like a kitten when she cried. She passed all the tests they require of newborns, however we saw the look in the eyes of the doctors who evaluated her. But still they said nothing, and the very busy hospital sent us home on day two.
On day three we took her to see our new pediatrician. She expressed concerned about Jaden’s low muscle tone and asked us to monitor Jaden’s feedings closely. The very next day I called her and through my tears tried to explain that Jaden had thrown up. But I was such a new mother I couldn’t even put that into words. It looked nothing like the act of vomiting with which I was familiar.
Jaden spent five days in the hospital, including – you guessed it – my 32nd birthday.
I’ll never forget how alone I felt that birthday. My mother had already gone back to Virginia, Andy was picking up his family who were flying in from England to meet the new baby, my best friend called to tell me she was on her way but running late. I couldn’t control the tears. They kept coming and coming and coming until all I could taste was salt. My body was so limp that I could barely walk across the floor. The nurses encouraged me to get out of the room and I remember stumbling as I tried to leave. Unable to care about anything else in the world except my baby girl’s life, I felt like I was dying.
In fact, the old me did die that day. My new life was about so much more than just me. That nagging feeling? All along God had been preparing me for something. I just never sat still long enough to recognize it.
So this week – the six days between Jaden’s birthday and my own birthday – resurfaces those bittersweet memories every year. Of course my “death” was not a literal one, but it was a transformation into a life that is bigger than me.
To life!
-Melissa
