It’s October 5th, 2005. 4 am. I cannot sleep. This is the most fear I have ever experienced, and that’s saying something. I called the doctor, but he said it’s too early, that I’d be fine. I want to ask for help, but the only person I could ask is the one who made me this way. I guess I have to bite the bullet, because I can’t do this on my own. Just as I walk into the room, he walks out and the fun begins.

I have been having pain on and off for the past 3 days.

As Steven walks out, he says, “What’s wrong with you?” I explain that I’m really hurting, that I think something is wrong.

“I know many women who went through this,” my boyfriend replies. “Ain’t nothing wrong with you. You’re just weak.”

Steven and I had planned on having a family. I wanted a large family, because being an only child is boring and I didn’t want to put my children through that. I also wanted a son unbound by my partner’s color scheme: he only wears white, black, gray and blue clothes, nothing outside of that. Steven wears his strictly colored clothes pressed down to the undershirts. He is a very precise man, clean shaven, one who wants everything to go according to schedule, He is also unable to keep a job, due to his tendency to let his emotions drive him into physical altercations.

Everything was fine between Steven and I until I got pregnant. After that, he became very controlling. If Steven had kept his hands to himself, I wouldn't be feeling this way at 4 am.

After Steven calls me weak, I sit for another hour. Then, finally, I decide to call 911. It takes the ambulance about 40 minutes to reach me–the cost of living in Brooklyn, I guess. They ask me what hospital I want to go to; I tell them Brooklyn Hospital, downtown, where I’ve been going for my care my entire life. They then take me on the longest and bumpiest ride of my entire life. The EMT keeps asking me if I was sure that’s where I wanted to go, because it was so far from my apartment. I repeatedly say yes; afterward, I’ll be glad that I stood on that decision. Nonetheless, I vow that day to never ride in an ambulance ever again.

After about 35 minutes of torture, we’re finally at the hospital. Who would have thought that I’m about to give birth to my miracle, who will teach me the importance of fighting through my self-doubt?

They’re expecting me. They know my my name when I rolled in, immediately pushing me into the ER’s  the heavily lit area. I’m telling the nurse that I’m ready to go, but she keeps saying that I have to wait, that not everyone needed for the delivery is ready. I stare at my surroundings, and reply, “I know I’m new to this, but there are already 8 of y’all here.” Lying here, dying slowly, I ask how long. They say an hour. I want to punch her in the face. Instead, I tell Steven to call my family to let them know what's going on.

Because it’s five in the morning, it’s hard to reach my family. Thankfully, we’re able to wake up one person, an aunt who said that she would call everyone else and let them know. Twenty minutes later, she calls back to see how I’m doing. The distraction is great. We talk on speaker phone to pass the time away. As we do, though, I realize that I’m getting sad. Fear, despair, and death itself wash over me, accompanied by disgust and failure. How can I not do anything right? Why is this even happening to me? Have I not gone through enough?

I start to space out and return inside the hospital. But then the lights go out, because an hour has passed, and the rest of the crew is downstairs.

I didn’t know it at the time, but during this hour, I am learning exactly how strong I am, how much control over my body I have.

Finally, they rush me to an even more brightly lit room, asking me if I’m ready. I have been ready for days, I think, but no, I’m not ready. I’ve got nothing prepared, and I don’t believe I am ready anymore. I was good at first but not anymore.

Well, that doesn’t matter. Now I must push. I pushed once and there he is, so small, no noise, no crying. Here come the fear and thoughts of failure again. Just when I’m about to pass out, a cry escapes his mouth, and they take him away. How do you make me wait an extra hour to see him and then take him away? I think. How am I supposed to know if he is ok? How will I make sure you are doing everything possible for him?

I didn’t know it at the time, but during this hour, I am learning exactly how strong I am.

A nurse returns with news: one pound, twelve ounces.  My heart is racing. That is very small. A bag of veggies weighs more than that. They move me to recovery and say I must worry about myself and get better so I can meet him if he makes it. An hour later the nurse comes back and gives me a speech about the ups and downs of my situation, about how my baby is not out of the woods, how we must live day by day.

The next day, I’m told that I can see my son. The area I’m in, the NICU, is a scary place: you must wash your hands before they ring you in, then you must put on foot covers and a gown. After that I walk to my son’s incubator and see him. It’s hard to for me to see all the wires attached to him, but he is alive, and I was thankful for that.

The nurses encourage me to hold my finger up so that my son, Brendan, can grab it. HIs body could fit in the palm of my hand. He has very dark and wrinkly skin, but also has the biggest, most beautiful eyes, not to mention a head full of dark curly hair. My pinky finger is bigger than his entire hand.

We are in the hospital for three months. I go up to the NICU every day. My baby’s weight drops to 0.7 ounces. He has three blood transfusions, and doesn’t get off the monitor until a week before he goes home with me. Even though he has had a rocky road he always fights and comes up on top. Eventually, he grows to 5’ 10”, a quiet young man with a deep voice, athletic build and dyed red hair. He becomes someone unafraid of color, someone who loves Muay Thai, track and drawing, someone who celebrates his 18th birthday in October 2023. Yet he is still my miracle baby: someone who made me stronger, who made me a fighter.