Breathing

It was my grandmother who told me the story of my birth.

My urgency to get into the world peaked in early morning hours—two a.m. to be precise. My delivery was complex. The umbilical cord wrapped around my neck three times, my mother had to be heavily sedated. When I finally arrived, I was near unresponsive.

“Breathe, you little stinker,” my grandmother said Doctor Smith urged as he repeatedly flipped the bottoms of my feet with his finger—this after I’d been held upside down and given a healthy swat on the derriere (as they used to do in the OLD days). Due to his persistence, I finally “pinked” up and began to breath with determination.

Last Friday, I celebrated another birthday. I used to loathe birthdays, for reasons I am now only beginning to comprehend—that’s another story.

My birthday cake courtesy my friend Christie--thanks Christie--she didn't have room for ALL the candles that should have been on it!

But this birthday was different. I’ve had so many friends die in recent years that I’ve learned to really cherish each day. I’m deeply grateful for my life, for friends, and for blessings which have been bestowed in my behalf. I’m thankful for what wisdom I’ve managed to glean: that when one door closes another truly opens, or a window allowing brilliant sunshine to fill even the darkest corner.

And that breathing is a good thing, a gift that should never be taken for granted.

Thanks, Dr. Smith.