My birth story

Jun 5, 2011 by Sara

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As a tradition, on my kids’ birthday they come running and jump into our bed.  Without skipping a beat, I pretend that I’ve forgotten it’s their birthday and they laugh and giggle and tell me over and over again that it’s their special day.  My standard reply: It is!?!  Then I start to tell them all about the day they were born.

Anna loves hearing about when Grandma held her for the first time she said “Baby Girl, we are going to have SO much together!” And Jack laughs when I tell him how late he was and how he just wanted to stay and party in Mommy’s tummy.  They giggle and get embarrassed and then press me for more details.

It’s one of my most favorite things to do in this world, recount the day that my two most favorite things came into this world.

Every year, I get nostalgic for my own birth story which I know only from memory. My story became the foundation for my belief that there is something after death.   You see, when I was born, my mother died, on the operating table – and then they brought her back.

I was born on April 30th in Toronto, Canada at 4:40AM. My beautiful mother, Susan, was 28 years old. My father, Michael was 31.  I weighed 7 pounds, 13 ounces.  I don’t know if a vaginal birth was attempted, but I do know that I was ultimately delivered via caesarian. A scar she held over my head for years to come.  Something had gone terribly wrong during my delivery.

My father has described the event like this:

“The doctor came out in scrubs that were covered in blood. Nervously, he told me that the baby was fine but that Susan was not. They would be back when they knew more and then they were gone.”

My mother had described the event like this (from my memory):

“I was lying on the operating table and felt myself start to float and rise up from the table.

Float up towards a bright light.

When I got there I saw my family standing in a semi-circle. My mother, my mother’s sister and others that were familiar but that I did not immediately recognize, were all standing there beckoning to me.   Telling me to join them.

There was a space in the semi-circle for me.  It was so calm and peaceful.

But I could feel a weight around my ankle pulling me back down.
I looked down and saw myself on the operating table and felt the heaviness of the weight pulling at my ankle.

My body started to go back down to the table.”

My father named me “Sara” as my mother was in recovery for the next 2 days, she had lost a lot of blood.  Ten days later, on Mother’s Day, we came home from the hospital.

My mom and I, 1975

 

There is a reason for everything. Of this I am convinced.

Because of this story I have a flicker of hope that there is something hereafter and that I will see my mother again at the end of this life.   Her story echoes that of thousands of other near death-experiences which share common details. This brings me peace.  I believe that when she did pass away eleven years later from cancer, she continued this journey and joined her family in her spot in this circle.

One day I will join her too. Until then, I will miss her and celebrate her memory.  I will continue to tell her grandchildren about the day that they were born.