Twenty-six years ago, right now, my mom was at an appointment with her OB/GYN. It was my due date. And then it was quickly my birthday, when her doctor ordered an emergency c-section. Yanked out at 3:15PM, the story goes, they thought I was stillborn. Cord around my neck, a dichotomous noose of life-building nutrients. Blue in the face. Not breathing. My mother was put out. My father was there. They told him I was gone. But then I wasn't. But then they noticed that my legs were severely twisted. Then I was whisked away to another hospital, since the one into which I'd been born did not have a NICU. Then I came home, and the real fun started.
When I look through my baby albums, I realize how insane that time was for my parents. I was a mess. They were told I'd likely never walk. Then throw in my dad's open heart surgery somewhere during my mom's pregnancy, and then her hip replacement before I was two? Yeah. The Sweeneys were a disaster.
But today I'm okay. Relatively, I guess. 26 years ago I wasn't breathing and I ran 5 miles this morning. I just ate some Thai food. I woke in a foul mood, missing my mother, wishing for her annual call singing Happy Birthday. I started my period. I have to go to the DMV. What am I doing with my life? Blah blah blah. But I felt better after running, and after discovering a note P left for me on our bed. And while my mom won't be calling today, many people have. And I think about how I came into this world, medical professionals hurriedly extricating me from my mother, from the only home I'd ever known, being strangled by the connection.
Sometimes you have to let go to live.
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