Actually I did die. Twice. Flat-line. Raised from the dead both times. The only thing that got me through was knowing I had my babies to take care of — there wasn’t much in my life outside of that keeping me here otherwise.
In the last 13 years I’ve done some great things and some not so great things. Every day there is a struggle, of course; that’s called life. Life, where your blood courses through your veins and doesn’t leave them to leak all over the mattress, carpet, bathroom floor or tub. It doesn’t eek out your spirit or the spirit of the one who caused the bleeding.
There was death inside of me that day. I didn’t know it. It wasn’t just flesh, the unborn child, that died. It was a death of some dreams I had, too. In essence, that day and the healing days that followed were a rebirth. I am, therefore, grateful to the powers that be for giving me this unusual suffering that actually began to shine a light into the non-life I had allowed my inner child, the one that knew what she wanted to do and was squashed all along the way through life. That day of epic bloodletting was all about like the doctors of yesteryear — to leech the poison out of my life. To give me a juxtaposition of what I did have and would never have. And what, more importantly, I should concentrate on the haves. I should grow that, it whispered to me as I shivered back to life in the emergency room.
So what will I do with the next 13 years. Keep struggling. Keep writing. Keep being the caretaker, peacemaker and heartbreaker. Living to my full potential and make the blood that’s been spilled fertilize the rest of my life.
What great event impacted your life, at first negatively, then far away from that event you see it was for the betterment of you?