My Health Isn’t Perfect, But That’s Okay
I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m ready to face whatever happens next.
There’s an old photo album in the living room. My mom grabs it, asks me to sit down, and shows me photos from the day I was born.
“I was worried,” she tells me, eyes twinkling as if she’s holding back tears. “The doctors weren’t sure if you were going to make it, and they had to place you in an incubator for several weeks.”
My mom says she planned to bring me home to a newly decorated bedroom and spend the rest of her days watching me grow up. But after I was placed in an incubator, her feelings of joy quickly gave way to fear. She also couldn’t help but wonder if her newborn son would survive the night, let alone the next few decades.
I run my fingers through the photo album and look into the eyes of my younger self. I have bright blue eyes, just like my mom, and a smile that could easily light up a room. Little did I know, however, all those years ago, that the odds of me surviving to adulthood were extremely slim.
My mom reaches out and places her arm around my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, but the smiles on our faces says more than words ever could.
