My Dad told me a story I often forgot, for whatever reason it always slipped my mind but it echoed in my mind around the time I turned 13. He repeated it to me multiple times growing up as to highlight to miracle of life and his faith. This was the story of my birth. My mother was preeclamptic while pregnant with me and because of complications due to the they had to induce labor 6 weeks before she was supposed to give birth. This was hectic time for everyone, my mom was worried about me, my dad was worried about my mom and me. My mother had me in the wee hours of August 5th, 1998 and everyone was overjoyed. Except that directly after I was sent to the NICU because of my low weight and jaundice which is a condition that causes the skin to appear yellow. The image of me, small and alien like with tubes inserted in and out of me and a blue light on at all times in my crib is enough to scare anyone. Both my mom and dad were very concerned about my wellbeing and my dad remembered in clear details everything that happened. The yellow-white lights of the hopsital, the green scrubs of the doctors, the eerie quiet of the unit devoid of the screams for milk or diaper changes that usually accompany babies. He remembered being so desperate that he prayed to God, to let me be healthy and if necessary to take his life instead of mine. That’s a pretty hefty request, but one befitting a selfless parent in crisis and one I’m sure many parents have made to try and avoid the death of their child. They held their breath, for one month, then two then three but I continued to grow without problem and despite my thick ER file it reflected my curious nature and penchant for trouble more than anything. But, while I grew to be a healthy child approaching adolescence, my father grew weaker. When I was 10, he was diagnosed with ALS or Amyotrophic Lateral Schlorosis. It’s a disease as scary as the name sounds and results in all of the muscles in your body decaying rapidly until you can’t breathe or move. It’s the kind of disease that seems to come from the land of witches and curses where unspeakable evil is more the milieu than a world filled with incredible medical technology. The one thing he repeated through his diagnosis and ensuing declining health was how much he loved me and how he hoped that I grew up happy and successful. He loved me very much and after he died, I often thought of the miracle of my birth. I’m not a very religious person and neither was he. We did not participate in a lot of Pujas and he did not scold me to memorize sections of the Bhagvad Gita. We were more secular hindus and believed in God as a ritual and not as a choice. But, it seemed to me to be more than a coincidence that the very thing my Dad had prayed for in those desperate hours in August of 1998 had been the very thing to occur in mid afternoon in July of 2011. The same yellow-white lights and green scrubs accompanying the experience. The idea that one life can be traded for another and that a prayer can be a prophecy isn’t new. But, it’s rare to see it in the real world and to feel the unselfish, unconditional parental love that comes with it.

–Siri C., 19, New York, NY ♦