I am eight years old. My little brother has just been born and there is chaos and confusion at home – relatives coming and going, my mother resting after a c-section, the sounds of a crying baby. I am comforted by my grandmother’s cinnamon rolls, and as I streak through the kitchen to my bedroom, I grab one, the buttery, sugary dough coating my fingers and filling my belly. Everyone in my family is impressed that I’m reading the Book of Mormon, but I don’t really understand the words. During my baptismal interview I’m embarrassed when the Bishop asks me about Lehi and Nephi. I can’t remember who they were.
Climbing out of a drug-induced fog I felt my husband, Chris, sobbing quietly into the stiff hospital blanket that covers me. I realized that I was indeed in a hospital bed, not in the birthing center with the midwife as I had planned. Dreading the answer, I asked my husband what happened.
“You had a seizure,” he said, his voice shaking. “We had to rush you here in an ambulance for an emergency c-section.”