My Birth Story

Okay, it's my birthday, so I am going to tell all of you a story. It's my birth story, and the first two years after. It's a story about miracles, and living despite all of the odds stacked against you, about faith, and the power of prayer. It's super long, but today is my day, so I am reclaiming my time; you can reclaim yours tomorrow (smile).
As most of you are aware, my mother was 17 when I was born, and a high school senior. To be more specific, she was only three weeks into her senior year because in Faison (Mayberry), because we were such a large agricultural area, school always started the Tuesday after Labor Day.
So after nine months of morning sickness, the doctor gave my mother some pills (apparently that is how things were done in the 1970's), to put her into labor. Did I mention the doctor in question (I am not mentioning his name, because woosah) was a general medicine practicing doctor not an OB-GYN? He just added delivering babies as a specialty. This story gets better.
My mother was instructed to take the medicine early that morning and meet him in his office, not the hospital, at 8am. She was there on time, but he didn't meet her there until 11am. I was born at 11:45am! 5 pounds 11ounces 19 inches long.
So 250 stitches later for her, and jaundice for me, we were sent home later that evening!
For the first few months I thrived, as much as a baby with a teen mother, born at a doctor's office, severally jaundiced can! My mother returned to high school in December a few weeks before Christmas break, and I was cared for by my maternal grandmother (Ms. Queen), who is about six weeks shy of turning 61, as she was nearly 44 when she had my mother and twin brother. I was almost 3 months old, and weighed nine pounds.
One morning in January, a few weeks after Christmas, my grandmother gave me a bath, put me down, and I become immobile. No baby cooing, no muscle movement, still as a statue. She immediately took me to the doctor, and the doctor hypothesized that possibly I might have had a few strokes prior to birth, and those were just some after effects.
I was referred to Duke and Chapel Hill hospitals. Now this is pre-I-40, so a trip to either one of those towns from Mayberry, was an entire day trip. Did I mention neither my grandmother or mother had a driver's license, my mother has already missed three months out of school, is a senior, and we didn't have good health insurance?
Doctors ran test after test. All kinds of specialists were brought in. They repeated the pre-birth stroke theory. Told my mother that I had a 10-20% chance of survival. If by some miracle I did survive, I would be "retarded" (People were a little less politically correct in the 1970's apparently), and I would never walk. At this point, I lost my ability to suck a bottle and had to be tube fed through my nose. My mother was 17; my grandmother tube fed me, until my nose became so sore and bruised that she couldn't take it anymore, so she enlisted the help of my Cousin Margie Darden. She left her bed many nights in the early morning hours to tube feed me (she worked full time, and had four girls of her own at home).
So from January 1977 until September of 1978, I spent more time in hospitals than I did at home, being tube fed, and weighing nine pounds. My mom was distraught. Seventeen, having a baby that you didn't plan for, and to be told that the child was going to die or be "delayed" was a bit much, but I had a praying grandmother, who was strong in faith, who believed her God could do anything. So she assembled a group of women who she called her prayer warriors (Evangelist Maxine Teachey, Evangelist Emma Gray Oates, Evangelist Maybelle Marable, and Evangelist Oliver). I am sure there were many others, but those are the ones who come to mind at this point.
One day along this journey, my grandmother went to the hospital, walked into my room, as I laid there hooked up to various tubes (I was completely naked except a diaper). My grandmother noticed that I was so cold, that I had turned blue. So my grandmother asked the nearest nurse who she could find, "Why does he not have on any clothes, or isn't being warmed properly?" The nurse replied, "He's not going to make it, and doctors told us just to keep him comfortable." So my grandmother (who was a much better Christian than I am...hallelujah somebody), asked the nurse, "If I promise to wash his clothes, will just please put him on at least a sleeper?" So the nurse went against her superiors and did what she asked.
One day, my grandmother was at home (She and my mother took turns staying with me at the hospital) in the bathtub, and she said a voice spoke to her, and said, "This is Corey's breakthrough."
At the time, she was alone, so it couldn't have been a human voice. So now this is where faith has to kick in! So she calls later that morning, to get an update on my status and is informed that there isn't any change. She calls the next morning, and is informed that there is still no change. But faith! She calls the third morning, the nurse on duty said and I quote, "Ms. King, he is emptying bottles faster than we can give them to him." (At this point, I had been tube fed for somewhere around eight months). From this point on, I continued to thrive, and I took my first steps one week before my second birthday! This, the baby who had a 10-20% survival rate. This baby, who doctors said that if by some miracle I survived, I would be retarded and confined to a wheelchair.
By the way, I am 41 today. I was in the academically gifted program beginning in 4th grade, took Honors classes in high school, attended college on an academic scholarship, have two degrees, and next year, I celebrate 20 years in teaching.
Why? Because I had a praying grandmother who knew a man, who can do anything!
At this time, I would like to thank each of you for reading my story, your birthday wishes, and the outpouring of love on my special day! And remember that with the right people in your corner, faith, and a praying grandmother, you too can do anything!