Thirty Seven
Over the years, I heard the story of my birth many, many times from many people. Far less frequently, I heard the story of why I lived.
On the day I was born, things went very wrong for me in the delivery room. Among other things, I was then placed in an incubator for eight days. My young parents were besides themselves; I was their first born, long cherished baby, and they couldn't even touch me.
And then, my mother told me, came the night when the doctors finally told them I wouldn't live.
My family's ancestral motto is "More fierce than proud", which essentially means we will viciously fight to the death for the things we belive in and the people we love. So.
My father did not take the news that I was dying well. He got angry. But not at the doctor.
He went to the hospital chapel, closed the door, and (as my mother so aptly put it) got it on with God. He yelled, he railed, and finally he said, "Not her. You can take me if you want, but you can't have HER. My life for hers. " And there was a flash of light.
The next thing he knew, he woke up flat on his back on the floor of the chapel. He went back to my mother, and found out that I was going to live.
From that day forward, he was always convinced he would die young. It didn't worry him, he just knew that was his end of the bargain.
I first heard this story from my mother when I was a teenager, and then somewhat regularly from her in the years that followed. My father, on the other hand, always told me the standard story, that I was desperately ill at birth, wasn't expected to live, but after eight days they finally said I would.
I only asked him about the whole story once. About ten years ago, I told him everything Mummy had told me, much as I have just told you, and asked him if it was true.
He looked at me sharply, and after a few seconds said "Yes" in a terse voice, and changed the subject. Clearly this was not something he wished to discuss. And so we never did.
My mother died in January, after a long illness. My father, who was in 100% perfect health, collapsed and died instantly of a heart attack in April. They were both just sixty.
Sometimes bargains are hard to keep.
And sometimes they are harder on the people whom the bargains benefit.
And so tonight, on my thirty seventh birthday, I think of them both. But I especially remember my Daddy.
And I have not done my job as a writer if you can not tell I am writing this with tears in my eyes.
On the day I was born, things went very wrong for me in the delivery room. Among other things, I was then placed in an incubator for eight days. My young parents were besides themselves; I was their first born, long cherished baby, and they couldn't even touch me.
And then, my mother told me, came the night when the doctors finally told them I wouldn't live.
My family's ancestral motto is "More fierce than proud", which essentially means we will viciously fight to the death for the things we belive in and the people we love. So.
My father did not take the news that I was dying well. He got angry. But not at the doctor.
He went to the hospital chapel, closed the door, and (as my mother so aptly put it) got it on with God. He yelled, he railed, and finally he said, "Not her. You can take me if you want, but you can't have HER. My life for hers. " And there was a flash of light.
The next thing he knew, he woke up flat on his back on the floor of the chapel. He went back to my mother, and found out that I was going to live.
From that day forward, he was always convinced he would die young. It didn't worry him, he just knew that was his end of the bargain.
I first heard this story from my mother when I was a teenager, and then somewhat regularly from her in the years that followed. My father, on the other hand, always told me the standard story, that I was desperately ill at birth, wasn't expected to live, but after eight days they finally said I would.
I only asked him about the whole story once. About ten years ago, I told him everything Mummy had told me, much as I have just told you, and asked him if it was true.
He looked at me sharply, and after a few seconds said "Yes" in a terse voice, and changed the subject. Clearly this was not something he wished to discuss. And so we never did.
My mother died in January, after a long illness. My father, who was in 100% perfect health, collapsed and died instantly of a heart attack in April. They were both just sixty.
Sometimes bargains are hard to keep.
And sometimes they are harder on the people whom the bargains benefit.
And so tonight, on my thirty seventh birthday, I think of them both. But I especially remember my Daddy.
And I have not done my job as a writer if you can not tell I am writing this with tears in my eyes.
posted by Jenn at
10:18 p.m.
1 Comments:
happy birthday, baby
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