sylph

The story of my birth is at least somewhat apocryphal, the way such stories usually are. To my mother, I was a miracle child. To my way of thinking, it's possible I wasn't meant to be here at all. It was one of those situations where she'd been told, somewhat grandiosely, it seems to me, that she could never again have another child, after two difficult childbirths, a third baby who died at two days old, and a fourth, stillborn at five months; both of these named, baptized, and buried, or so I am told. I wonder where they were buried? I don't remember being shown any little white lamb tombstones when we'd wander through cemeteries every Memorial Day, having a look at the graves of other relatives I'd never known. Anyway, then me. It was a rough pregnancy, a rough delivery by caesarian, and then another baby not breathing, another emergency in my mother's womb, and this time my dad was asked the Big Question, "Who do we save?" And of course he answered as husbands are expected to do, "Save my wife." I'm not certain it was wholly out of immense love for her and the idea of perishing without her. There had to be an element of practicality involved. It was the 60s, there were two young boys at home, what on earth was he going to do with them if she died? So, the apocryphal bit: I was laid aside, not breathing, momentarily forgotten as the doctors and nurses worked furiously to stem internal bleeding and get my mother sewn back up, when an off-duty nurse wandered by, and, seeing my dilemma, swooped in to jump-start me into the land of the living. I was duly welcomed, fawned over, and honored with names that signified my holy birth, death, and entrance to life. The only thing that truly comforts me about it all is that I was born on my due date. I have since kept up a life-long habit of being on time for meetings and appointments.