We All Need to Breathe

When my son, Rocky, was born he was not breathing.

And I’m not talking about the doctor needing to slap him on the back to get him kick started. He did not know how to breathe.

Anna was in the delivery room, and she sent me a text that said, “the baby is out!”

Then another text that says, “the nurses are taking a long time with him. He’s not breathing. Please pray”.

Minutes that feel like hours go by. No more updates.

Anna said when they took Rocky out, he was completely blue and lifeless. Anna was sitting in the room, all the nurses were scrambling around the room, and all she could think was “Oh my God, he’s dead”.

When she told me this, it was the first time in my life it felt like my blood was all draining out of my body.

After what feels like an eternity, the nurses came over to Anna and said they were able to get a ventilator in, but he was unable to breath on his own.

There have been few feelings in my life that have been scarier. And part of the reason was because nobody knew why. Was this something bigger? Was he ever going to breathe on his own? Nobody had any answers.

At that moment, my brain was dizzy with emotions. I asked myself a question: “If I knew this is how it would all end, would I do it all again?”

Man, that’s such a hard question.

I have probably haven’t cried this much in a year since my mom died.

Fiona’s schedule has been completely uprooted, and somehow her bedtime has been pushed back by hours.

And living in swamp-heat of Louisiana for the month of June made growing up in Green Bay in February seem like an ideal vacation destination.

But THIS is life. It’s a series of big risks, and sometimes they pay off. But often, everything falls apart, and we are only left with the bad taste of all our hard work, our emotions, and our energy. And it feels like it’s all wasted.

It reminds me of one of my favorite poems, called “IF” by Rudyard Kipling. And Kipling is giving advice for how to be a person of character and has a great stanza that says:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

I love this because Kipling is not describing how we respond to winning- anyone can do that. It’s in losing that character is defined.

What do we do when a big project we have put months into falls apart? Or when we have spent sleepless nights, and we realize our worst nightmare is reality? How will we react?

I remember looking around the hospital recovery room with glossy eyes. And I thought, if this is how it all ends, and my job was to be Rocky’s dad and to love him for his few minutes of life, I would do it all again.

I took a deep breath and realized I could deal with whatever happened next.

A few hours later, they took Rocky off his ventilator, and he took his first big breath. A week later, at his one-week check-up the doctor said, “he’s perfect. It’s a miracle”.

Sometimes in the hardest moments of life, all we can do is breathe. Even with the knowledge that even though it’s hard, we would do it all again.

Matt

Here is the full version of Rudyard Kipling’s “IF”:

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;

If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!