Life Begins?

I would like you to know other events that have happened to me, which will maybe bring up in your mind the same question that I have through out the years.

I have been close to death several times including right before I was going to be born. I cannot imagine what my dad had been going through as well as his thoughts when the doctor gave him a choice to decide who would get priority for life: his wife or his unborn child. I don’t blame my dad for choosing my mother. After all, how can one sacrifice the life of some one that is alive for some “unborn stranger”? The doctor was sure that either my mom or I would have to suffer the ultimate consequence: death. This is why my dad had to make the decision as to who the doctor would focus to save. My fate had already been foretold and, perhaps, would cease to go on after birth.

My mom’s history of heart problems was one of the major factors complicating her pregnancy. The other issue was her age; my mother was 49 when she was going to give birth to me. A day before my unexpected birth, my mom became aware of the pregnancy’s possible outcome. When she knew that more than likely her child was not going to make it, she did not want to give birth. She felt that, by me being in her wound, it would be the only way to still keep me alive and ever close to her. Little did everyone know that I would, some how, not want to wait another 2 months to find out what little expected life had for me. On January 22, my mother started having contractions. The sign was clear; the forecast of the unborn could wait no more. Despite of the complications at labor, the fetus was no longer in the wound but struggling to get used to the breath of life in an incubator. The doctor let my parents know that even though I was born alive, they should not get their hopes up because I was still at high risk of dying.

The first memories my mom had about me were of a “snake.” For the first 20 days or so, I shed my skin. She remembers how my hands shed leaving behind my clear dry skin in the form of a glove. During that time, my family contemplated how the weak premature child seemed as though it was not going to make it any longer. This is where my name came about. Since they were certain that I did not have much time left, my oldest sister decided to baptize me. She prayed for me through St Martin (the saint for the meek). I was named after him—Marco Martin.

As time passed, it was noticeable that my time was not up yet.....

There are other incidents in which I have been close to death. I've always wonderred about my purpose in life. Obviously, it must be a good one for I am still here able to write about those experiences myself. I will write another one later on, as I get in my writing mood, but mainly to gather information about it to clearly state the events.