My chest rose high as it was pumped full of oxygen and then collapsed as the air was sucked out. Inhale. Exhale. I had no control. My body was tightly cushioned on all sides. I could smell and feel feces squished around my hips. A soft mumbling filled my ears. The loud inhale/exhale echoed in my head. Something was making me breathe. My eyes twitched open and I saw a priest wearing a purple silk scarf and a hat sitting next to me, reading from the Bible. His fingers moved in the sign of the cross over me as he read a prayer. I knew it was the “Act of Contrition,” the last rites for a Catholic soul.
I couldn’t move or speak. INHALE. EXHALE. A machine was forcing my breath. A nurse walked by and glanced my way. Dropping her bundle of linens, she rushed to my side and exclaimed, “Oh my God! Look who’s awake!” The priest looked up, startled, then kissed his scarf and Bible and said “thank you” to the ceiling. Starched white nurses quickly surrounded me, fussing over my sheets, wiping my body clean. They chatted, giddy with excitement. Inhale. Exhale. The machine rattled in my ears. Once again, I fell asleep.
The doctors had not expected me to survive and told my parents that if I did live, I would probably have brain damage as a result of the lack of oxygen. However, I fully recovered in less than ten days and the doctors were stunned. Many tests were done to find any possible brain damage, but there was none to be found. My parents were assured that I would grow, develop and learn as well as any child. My family considered my recovery a miracle.
