A Twenty-First Birthday Gift

They say you will always remember your twenty-first birthday. I have no doubt that I will always remember mine. But what I will really remember about this day is not that it was my twenty-first birthday, but that it was her first. 

When we were called down to the delivery room after dinner, we found Rehema laboring. She was fully dilated, but the baby’s position was still too high. When the water broke, it was full of green meconium. We knew the baby was already at risk, so we got ready for a C-section.

In the major theatre (AKA the operating room), I readied myself to catch the baby in my arms. However, the baby was so stuck that the surgeon and even the scrub nurse were working to maneuver it out of the womb. They tried to push and pull for what seemed to be way too long before the baby finally sprawled out on the operating table. It was limp and lifeless.  My heart started beating faster and faster.

The doctor placed the baby in the blanket in my arms. “This is one depressed baby,” he said with fear. I could here the severity in his voice and see the intensity in his eyes.  I placed her on the counter where Meghan was waiting. She suctioned the baby’s mouth and nose and placed her on oxygen while I listened to the heart rate. A normal heart rate for a newborn is 120 – 160. Hers was 70.  She was not breathing, and she was blue. I immediately began compressions while Meghan started giving respirations with the ambu bag. I counted, “One, two, three…” while pressing on the baby’s chest with my thumbs. I then paused for Meghan to fill the tiny lungs with air. “One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe…”

We rhythmically performed CPR for two minutes before stopping to reevaluate the baby. By this time, the heart rate was up to 140, but the baby was still not breathing. “Come on, little girl!” Meghan and I cheered her on as we continued to give her breathes and pat her feet. After the ten minutes that seemed like an eternity, she choked up a tiny cough. That was all it took for her legs and arms  to flex and her lungs to inflate on their own. “That’s it!” We congratulated her and let out a sigh of relief. We even began to laugh. 

I swaddled her in a simple blanket and took her back to the OB ward, where we weighed her in at 2.75 kg. I used to cringe at the sound of a baby’s cry, but now it is music to my ears. She hollered and kicked as I weighed her on the cold scale, but I grinned with delight because I knew her lungs were working. Against many odds, she lived. Later, the doctor told me he never thought the baby would make it. For my twenty-first birthday, I saw a miracle.

As I held her in my arms, I whispered in her ear, “Hey baby girl, we have the same birthday!” I kissed her on the cheek and played with her tiny nose. “Do you know that Jesus loves you?”

Meghan and I prayed over her, that she would come to know and love Jesus with all her heart. Then we passed her over to her proud grandmother. A gigantic one-toothed smile spread across her face at the sight of that baby girl.

The best gift I received on my twenty-first birthday was the gift of a new life. In spite of great life-threatening opposition, a healthy mama holds a healthy baby in her arms tonight. Now, whenever I celebrate my birthday, I know that another precious little girl celebrates hers at almost the exact same time. (Within two hours anyway!) Jesus used my hands to bring her into the world, but it was His breath that gave her life. 

They say you will always remember your twenty-first birthday, but what I am going to remember is that it was her first.