It was just another day, until it wasn't
We talk about big life events because they remind us who we are and where we've been. In the Bible, the people of Isreal took stones from the Jordan River and placed them on the other side as a reminder to themselves and to their future generations of the protection God had given to them.
We have stories too. Past generations tell about where they were during the bombing of Pearl Harbor or the shooting of President Kennedy and we tell the story of where we were when the planes hit the World Trade Center. We talk about it because it connects us with other people.
In our family, the story we tell on September 11, isn't the same one everyone else is telling.
Eight years and one week ago, I was 38 weeks pregnant and despite my best efforts to lay in the right position and pray my daughter into the right direction, she was still breeched. The window for her to turn on her own was closing quickly. My first delivery of an 8 lb 5 oz boy was an easy one...well, as easy as pushing another human being out a hole the size of, well, you know, can be anyway. Six hours including one hour of pushing and my baby was in my arms. This time, they estimated the baby to be nearly two pounds smaller which meant one good sneeze and she would come flying out. Except for the whole breech thing.
Based on my history, my doctor was working hard to convince me to let him turn her manually and then immediately induce labor. My major hang up was that in the few months prior two acquaintances lost babies during delivery. My fear level nearly matched my hormone level. The more he talked the more I was scared to death something would happen to this precious life inside of me. So I did what any 9 months pregnant woman would do.
That poor doctor. He had no tissue in the exam room so he offered me the only thing he did have, gauze. There I sat, half-dressed, wearing the exam gown, ugly crying and blowing my snot into gauze. It was every bit as glamorous as it sounds.
My doctor did the only thing he knew to do. He offered the next option, a c-section, and suggested I return the next week with my husband so we could discuss the surgery. He realized he would get no where with me. Between the hormones and fear and the fact that I had gestational diabetes and hadn't eaten cake in two months, he was fighting a losing battle of sanity with me.
He offered to the schedule the c-section for the next Friday. My immediate question was, "Isn't that September 11?"
To which he responded, "Yes, but it's just another day."
He was wrong. It isn't just another day.
It's my daughter's birthday.