2 lbs: A Story of Survival and Deeper Meaning

Ever seen a 2 pound newborn baby? Well, now you can say you have.

Whenever I start to wonder “what’s the point” or I lose sight of why I’m here and what am I even supposed to be doing? I think back to the day I was born. 

Of course, it took me until adulthood to realize the significance of this event. I grew up being told and telling this story to basically anyone that would listen, but its importance, why it shocked so many people, that understanding didn’t come until later. 

See, I’m a twin. My sister and I were born three months premature, at about 26 weeks (in December, mind you). We were two pounds each, give or take an ounce. Our waist was about as big around (small?) as a beer bottle. You could fit us in the palm of your hands, excluding limbs. The smallest diaper in existence was still too big. 

I was born first and rushed off to urgent care. My sister was born breech (feet first). There are 8 minutes between us because the doctor’s tried and failed to turn her around. She was purple because she couldn’t breathe. We spent those three remaining months that were supposed to be in the womb, in the NICU, tangled up with tubes and our parents unable to touch us with their bare hands. 

If my sister had been born first, neither of us would have made it. We were given caffeine to keep our brains alert so we could remember to breathe. If anything went wrong over those next three months, the chances of survival were slim. I mean, we were two pounds! That’s lighter than most laptops. Thankfully, my mother was, well…my mother.

When she learned the nurses had returned to feeding us through tubes instead of by bottle because it was easier, she requested a cot and stayed with us for the next few weeks in the hospital.

At 5 pounds we could go home, but after three months we were still just under that goal. My mother argued with the doctor until she could take us home that day anyway.

There are only two main hospitals in my city. I can’t enter either without a nurse that took care of us when we were born, recognizing us, even after all these years. 

So, whenever I have that nagging feeling of “why am I here,” I remember that I’m supposed to be. I remember that I don’t have to do anything special or extraordinary, that it’s ok I just exist. Because the day I was born could have very well been the day I died. A little morbid, sure, but it serves as an important reminder to me. One I think others could benefit from. 

You are here because you are supposed to be here. You are alive because you are supposed to be alive. You are enough. Exactly as you are.