I was born dying!
No, I don’t mean in the sense of a philosophical reflection on the brevity of every life, marking time till the inevitable end, and stuff like that.
Mine was a difficult birthing, what they called an assisted or instrument delivery. Since I wasn’t coming out in spite of the usual encouragement and assistance—to my mother, that is—the doctor had to recourse to using forceps.
Forceps are like tongs with loops on either side that were used to gently turn or pull the baby’s head through the birth canal.
They got me out, but not in the best of shape—I was hemorrhaging badly. My mother was in no condition to provide a blood transfusion, and I was dying.
They called for my father and immediately drew blood from him for me. There was no time for checking blood types and compatibility—it was do or die!
In the midst of all these emergency procedures, the attending nurse thought to call a priest to come baptize me, seeing that my chance of living was slim.
Naturally I have no personal memory of any of this. I’m only retelling the tale I heard years later. I’m grateful to God, my mother, my father, the doctor, and the nurse that I’m here to tell it.
This was the first of several childhood skirmishes with death. Growing up, doctors, medical procedures, and medications were a familiar part of my life, but my life went on because of, or in spite of, them.
Besides the usual measles, mumps, and chicken pox, I had recurrent severe bouts of asthma—and once or twice they almost did me in.
Before my teens, I already had three major surgical procedures, twice a hernia repair and once an emergency appendectomy. I remember the last one very well:
It was on the feast of the Immaculate Conception. I had gone to Mass and communion before school (I was then in the 9th grade) and started to have severe abdominal cramps and pain at school.
I was rushed to the nearest hospital. The surgeon on duty successfully removed my infected appendix which was on the verge of bursting. Thanks be to God, the Blessed Mother, and all those who helped me that day!
In retrospect, it’s amazing how my life turned out, even though I was a “sickly” kid (and a “Depression baby” to boot!)
I’ve had a long life, already longer than most. I was never much of an athlete, but I had a full and happy childhood, and I was always active, energetic, and, excuse me for saying this, pretty smart. (Maybe those extra squeezes of my head while I was being born helped!)
Getting back to born dying, there is a real truth in that. Death is inevitable for us all, although we never know when. We keep careful count of our years of life (that’s what birthdays are all about), but we never know how many more are in store for us.
In retrospect, the near-death experiences of my life have helped me better to live—and of course my understanding of the meaning of life and God’s plans for all of us.
Living well means looking forward, and that includes facing death. We have to integrate death into our lives to live successfully even though we never know when we will die.
No matter what our life planning may be, we must not forget that any day may be our last, and every new day is a gift.
7 June 2020