I don’t believe in growing up, at least not entirely. However, there are moments in each person’s life, when it becomes necessary to be an adult. For some, those moments come entirely too soon…for others much too late. For me, adulthood slapped me in the face one afternoon in May of 2004. For the first time in my life I truly understood what it meant to experience life altering fear, true love, and endless hope. I knew where movie directors got the idea of utilizing slow motion photography during pivotal moments in a character’s life. I knew what it was to lose and I knew what it was to want.

For those that have known me since childhood, they would have guessed I had been an adult for years. I was always a child that was entirely too mature and experienced some things in my youth that makes it hard to retain the innocence necessary to be youthful. If you had only known me since I became an “adult” by standards of law, they would have guessed I didn’t really know what the word adult mean. After all, I collect furry red monsters and enjoy teaching preschool.

I married my wonderful husband when I was 19. My husband is several years older than I am, so our marriage produced a lot of whispers and speculations in the small town where we lived. We had only dated for 3 months before he proposed, and our engagement was short as well. Most people assumed I was pregnant…I was not. We were simply in love. Six months later, we were shocked to find out I was pregnant. I always say our son is the best surprise I have ever received.

The pregnancy was difficult from the beginning. My blood pressure was high, I was overweight, and the placenta had attached itself in the wrong place. After 4 months, the doctor placed me on strict bed rest. The next five months were grueling. I hated it. There was too much time to think. Think about what having a child meant, to think about what could go wrong. I was even occasionally angry that the “thing” inside of me was already making it impossible to do anything. I was still a child. My husband still dutifully called my mother whenever anything bad happened. We were newlyweds. We lived on property that butted up against my in-law’s farm. I was still in college. I wasn’t ready for this. I was selfish.

Somewhere early in the ninth month, it was deemed medically necessary to induce my labor. We packed the bag with everything the list in my pregnancy book had told me I would need. We told our families we would call when things got going well and left in the middle of the night for the hospital. We arrived; I was admitted and given all the right medications to insure I gave birth in the next 24 hours. All went well right through the epidural process. I was progressing slowly, and felt “funny.” The nurses assured me it was a combination of my stroke-level blood pressure and mom-to-be jitters. It was suggested that the dad-to-be grab a bite to eat.

The moments that follow are a blur. The doctor came by to check on my progress and suddenly the bed was dropped, an emergency surgery team was being ordered and I was flying down the hall with the doctor riding on the gurney with me. The baby needed to come out…NOW! My parents were sent to find my husband and break the news to him…there was a problem and he needed to come to surgery right away. As quickly as everything happened, time in a sense seemed to stand still. Voices were deep and slow, motions seemed exaggerated, and I saw our lives flash before my eyes. In the few minutes it took my husband to arrive, the baby was already out and I was being put into a twilight sleep in order to keep me from seeing the baby. My husband’s first glimpses of our son were of a limp, blue child being rushed out of the room by a crying nurse. Legally, our son was dead.

At some point after the epidural, and before the doctor came to check on me, the umbilical cord prolapsed and cut off oxygen supply to the child. No one is sure how long he was without oxygen or how the nurse could have missed the signs of distress on the monitor. During the delivery I was deemed near death as well. The anesthesiologist feared I would stroke or bleed out. He uttered phrases such as “The anesthesia hasn’t kicked in yet.” and “Her body can’t handle seeing this.” Though essentially unconscious, I remember begging God to wake me up. I hadn’t really meant my life was over…I had really meant my life was just beginning. The greatest gift I could ever have was a husband that loved me and a child. My gift was being taken away. The panicked and tear stricken looks in the operating room told me what their words were refusing to.

In those moments between the self-pity and going under, something clicked inside of me. A switch was literally flipped. Instead of wallowing in fear and selfishness, all energy turned towards recovery and understanding of what had happened and what would happen. I no longer lived for me, but for my family. I no longer needed to be cared for, but I was able to care for. Every doubt I had seemed childish and every desire I had for myself seemed foolish.

Our son was revived and his recovery is described as nothing short of a miracle. The same can be said for the speed of my recovery given the circumstances. It was 48 hours before I got meet our “gift of God,” Matthew, but I didn’t care. I already knew how special he was and how different I was. People say having a baby changes everything, but I never could have guessed how much it would change me.

It has been five years since I received my crash course in adulthood. Matthew is miraculous in every way. Short of a few learning differences, there are no long-term distresses from his birthing experience. He has even recently welcomed a little sister. And while I became an adult that day in May, I am happy to report that I still collect furry red monsters, play in the rain, and love to teach preschool. Because, no matter how adulthood finds you, it is important to never grow up too much.