Some birthdays are more difficult than others. I promised myself when I survived cancer that I would never again complain about a birthday, and I won't! But I can say that with hard times comes some sadness over impending days like the one you were born.
One of my goals as a parent was to always celebrate my children's birthday in a way that made them feel loved and appreciated. The days that they were born were as special to me as to anyone because they were the most important days of my life. I remember each one in great detail and re-live them every year. I was more blessed when I had each of them than at any other times in my life. And those days are sacred to me. But my own not so much.
It was to my own mother though! She loved to tell the story of my birth because it was a poignant one. She nearly lost her baby and she nearly lost her life all at the same time. I was a placenta previa baby back in the days before MRIs and sonograms and they only suspected why she began hemorrhaging in her fifth month. Once she was released from 6 weeks of bed rest she was able to take care of my older brother until the time a couple months later when she woke up and had hemorrhaged all over the bed. It was the early days of emergency services and they carried her down the stairs on a dining room chair and loaded her into the crude ambulance for a trip to the hospital. Thankfully her old country doctor was skilled enough to be able to perform a Cesarean section on her during a time when they weren't at all common, and both Mom and I were spared.
I sometimes wonder, especially lately, why I was so blessed. What was it that I was supposed to accomplish in this life? I don't feel as though I fulfilled whatever that mission was. But maybe, just maybe, one of my grandchildren will invent the cure for cancer some day. Or become a great world leader. Or maybe - just maybe - the world will be a better place because of the good people my grandchildren all become. And that would be enough for me.