18 Years Ago

September 25th is not just another day on the calendar—it’s a vibrant milestone, celebrating my youngest son’s 18th birthday and the incredible journey our family has shared. A month ago, our home filled with joyful chaos as siblings were still home from college. We celebrated this turning point together. We reminisced over silly and fun stories and wrapped him in all the love we could give. Now, with his official birthday upon us, my husband and I are preparing for a more intimate celebration. We will savor the chance to create new memories together—just the three of us, reflecting on how far he has come and dreaming of all that’s still ahead of him.

My son’s birthday means the world to me, but it is also woven tightly with memories of pain and perseverance. Eighteen years ago, just hours after his birth, I found myself at the edge of life and death. Before he arrived, I had endured the heartbreak of three miscarriages—the kind of silent grief that lingers in the quiet moments and shadows every hope. Desperate for answers, I sought a specialist who, after exhaustive tests, discovered the root of my struggles: my blood did not flow properly to my placenta, robbing my babies of the chance to thrive. Determined to change our story, I plunged into a regimen of daily blood thinner injections—30 mg for my first son, 40 mg for my daughter, and, when I was pregnant with my youngest, a daunting 60 mg twice a day. The injections were brutal, my abdomen a canvas of purple and blue, but I pressed on, driven by the fierce and unwavering love. Even if the doctor had prescribed five shots a day, I would have endured without question. Every bruise was a small price for the possibility of holding my children in my arms, and each dose was an act of defiance against loss.

When my youngest finally arrived—rosy, healthy, and perfect—I thought the storm had passed. I imagined myself home within days, cradling my newborn, and having my older children welcome their newest family member. But fate had other plans. My blood, thinned to keep my baby alive, now refused to clot. What should have been a joyful postpartum recovery unraveled into chaos. My husband, brimming with pride, had just sent word to friends and family: mother and son were well, and visitors were welcome. But within hours, joy turned to terror. He was forced to send another message—a plea for urgent prayers, a firm request for no visitors. The hospital, once filled with anticipation, became a stage for a nightmare as doctors informed my husband that I was hemorrhaging and would require an emergency hysterectomy. The weight of the moment was crushing; fear seeped into every sterile corner of that waiting room as my husband signed the forms that could have made him a widower.

As I squeezed my husband’s hand in the moments before being wheeled away, a chilling sense of finality swept over me. Every instinct screamed that this goodbye could be our last. The pain in my body was eclipsed only by the ache in my heart—the fear of leaving my children motherless, of breaking the circle we had fought so hard to complete.

Yet, even as dread threatened to swallow me, there was the invisible embrace of prayers; they wrapped around me like armor. In that sacred space between hope and fear, I encountered grace. Where darkness threatened to steal everything, God intervened. Hours later, against all odds, I opened my eyes to a second chance at life.

The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. -John 10:10 (ESV)

As we mark this milestone birthday, my heart swells with gratitude—not only for my son’s life, but also for my own, and for the immeasurable blessings that have arisen from our journey through darkness. Surviving those harrowing hours in the hospital always reminds me that what once felt ordinary now feels miraculous; each celebration is a triumph, each new day a gift. I declare that I will celebrate many, many more gifts with those I love.