July is a month of memories and introspection for me. In July of 1973 I was 7 months pregnant, very young, and living with a man in an unhealthy, some would say dangerous, relationship.
My son rebelled in his own way by deciding to come into this world 2 months early. His first month was touch and go and he was transported to a neonatal unit in a different hospital. Meanwhile, I had complications of my own and almost died. It was about a month before we could come home and be together.
Every year around my son’s birthday I think of the young girl I was and how scared and hopeless she felt. For many years the memories made me sad and sometimes led to depression. But not any more.