My birth story
I’m not supposed to be alive. My twin brother Josh and I had to be delivered during the twenty-third week of my mom’s pregnancy. That’s considered “the brink of viability.” If we arrived a few days earlier, doctors wouldn’t have even tried keeping us alive. In the rush to save me, a nurse who was squeezing an airbag to pump oxygen into my lungs kept shaking her head because it wasn’t helping. The doctor asked my dad if they should keep trying, knowing that the longer it took, the more likely that I’d suffer serious long-term consequences.
On my sixth day, I needed surgery for a perforated bowel that was causing internal bleeding. Doctors were so pessimistic of my chances that they told my parents to say goodbye. Doctors also allowed my parents to touch me for the first time. Someone suggested my dad take a picture with his wedding ring against my foot for perspective of how small I was. My entire foot fit inside the ring. In fact, my whole leg fit through the ring — which you can fit a dime through but not a penny.
The surgeon knew I was too small and too sick to tolerate the normal operation. He also knew I could only survive if my bowel had a single hole. So…
