Miracle or Mistake?

While my mother was pregnant with me in her sixth month, her gallbladder ruptured. The surgery to remove it was a success. However, it would only take a turn for something worse from there. To aid in easing her pain, my mother was put on a morphine drip. Though it did as it was intended and brought her needed relief, I was not strong enough to handle its strength. My heartbeat slowed twice, dangerously close to stopping completely, prompting immediate action to perform an emergency C-section. As I was born, doctors and nurses began working diligently to care for me.

Being three months early, my chances were slim, as I only weighed one pound and four ounces. My parents were told to get a good look at me because it would be the last time they would before they had to lower me, as the odds were stacked as high as they could go. According to them, there was no hope for my survival.

I was set to be flown to one of the best hospitals in the state, but it was hours away. They said the trip would be too great for me to make successfully, so they had to resort to flying me to a closer hospital that was better equipped to care for me. For the three months I should have still been processing in the womb, I spent that time in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). I spent the majority of my time there in an incubator, until being moved to an open bed closer to the end of the three month mark.

Once I had reached four pounds and fourteen ounces, I was cleared to go home. My parents were told it was a miracle.

But was it?

I would be lying if I said that it was the most trying moment of my life, but it would only be the foundation for more to come. Growing up for me meant growing up faster than I should have.

At six years old, I learned the world was not as pretty as I had once believed. Due to certain circumstances with a slumlord, my family and I found ourselves left with nothing but what we already had with us in hand. We returned home one night to find everything we owned was gone. Clothes? Gone. Food? Gone. Pictures? Not a one left. There was nothing inside. The landlord made sure to take everything...two weeks before Christmas. I was then forced to learn why Santa would no longer be making visits to our house, but I could never share that with my classmates. The landlord's grandson was in my class and made sure to not let me forget just what his grandpa had done, boasting about playing with the toys that had been wrapped and put into hiding for me and my brothers. He taunted me daily, and after my mom addressed it with the principal, she was told I would "just have to deal with life's unpleasantries" and dismissed the issue, reducing the situation to me just being dramatic.

I started developing acne in the fourth grade. This, of course, led to others bringing unwanted attention to it. For most of my school years, I rode the bus. I remember a fellow rider making it a point to bring awareness to the trouble on my face. We were designated certain seats at the time, with index cards above the windows showing the names of the students assigned to sit there. At the end of one day, I boarded to find that my name was no longer visible. Written over in big, bold, and blue letters was "ZIT". My heart sank, as I was forced to sit beneath it, his laughter echoing out as I could not keep tears at bay. I wanted to crawl within myself, as he reigned victorious in his endeavors.