Courtesy of the author
Everyone has a birthdate. Mine was a Saturday afternoon in June at 1:54 p.m. — June 3, 1995, to be exact — when I first made my shocking entrance into the world.
I say shocking because, unlike most people, my birthday came as a surprise to my mother and the hospital, too. I was born a Gemini, but I was supposed to be a Libra. Born three months early, there I was, weighing only one pound and 15 ounces.
My mother had what they called an incompetent cervix, a condition name that sounds more like a judgment than a medical diagnosis, in which dilation happens before term or without labor. In short, her cervix opened, weakened, or shortened too early in pregnancy. Unbeknownst to her, I would say an untimely hello at 24 weeks without contractions or fluid falling between her legs.
Statistically, one in 10 babies are born early, according to the CDC. I am one. If a child is born before 37 weeks of pregnancy, they are considered "preterm." But like my case, if an infant is born at less than 27 weeks, they are considered a micro-preemie. At 24 weeks, they just called me a miracle baby at the hospital.
Born in the San Bernardino County hospital, I was on life support and round-the-clock care for 105 days after my arrival, where I lived in the neonatal intensive care unit.
There, I was kept isolated in an incubator, only to be touched by the prodding of nurses, doctors, and mostly my dad, who was there next to me every day. Constantly attached to a machine, long tubes pumped oxygen in and out of my lungs. Endless wires bud from the hand-holes of the incubator, attached to almost every surface of my bloated and purple body, slightly bigger than the size of a pencil.
What little hair I did have on my head, they shaved off, leaving me bald for the first two years of my life until my fine blonde hair sprouted little by little.
My eyes didn't open for the first two weeks. The length of my body matched the size of my weight at only 13 ¼ inches. The nurses held objects next to my body, showing how tiny I was, for the photos my mom would later put into a scrapbook. According to the book, I had long fingers then and still do. I've always found that to be amusing.
During a healthy pregnancy, some of the most important growth and development come in the final months and weeks. I didn't get that most important time. As my aunt always says, I wasn't in the oven long enough and didn't finish baking. Because of this, I became like other preemie babies who needed time to develop their organs. To speed up the process of what I missed in utero, they gave me steroids to make my organs grow faster. And they did grow, but faster than my tiny frame could keep up with, leaving me bloated and purple-looking. My tongue grew so quickly that, in all of my photos as a baby, I looked like I was sticking it out for the camera. I was pronounced dead three times during my stay. They were always able to bring me back, though.
One statistic says that roughly 26% of all preemies will develop chronic lung disease (CLD) due to the use of pulmonary equipment in the hospital. The rate of CLD has not improved in the last 10 years. Luckily, I didn't suffer from chronic lung disease, even though I did have short-term asthma as a child. Preemies are also more likely to suffer lifelong effects from their birth, such as cerebral palsy, mental disabilities, visual and hearing impairments, and poor health and growth. Even babies born only a few weeks early often have long-term difficulties such as behavioral, social-emotional problems and learning difficulties.
I've been lucky to have no disabilities, health problems, or growth issues — other than my below-average weight — and my tendons are shorter than the average woman, making it impossible for me to touch my toes.
Being born premature can have an effect in adulthood too. According to various studies, when you're born before full-term, normal brain development is interrupted during a period of rapid growth and may increase lifelong susceptibility to psychiatric disorders. Adult survivors of preterm birth have been reported to have increased risks of depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and nonaffective psychosis. Unfortunately, I've been diagnosed and suffered from both depression and anxiety, and I do sometimes wonder if it comes from the preemie namesake. If that is all I've endured from being premature, I consider myself lucky.
After 105 days of treatment in the NICU, I was finally able to be sent home with my family, weighing only four pounds. I was so small that I couldn't fit into regular baby clothes, so they dressed me in Cabbage Patch doll outfits. I survived, relatively unscathed, somehow. My little self found her way in the world. Now, 28 years later, I like to think of myself that way: fragile, small, even funny-looking. But having beat the odds, I like to think it must have been for a reason.
