Crash Into Me: Finding Worth in the Miracle

I wake to a dreary December morning on my second wedding anniversary. I’m nine months pregnant, expecting a baby boy named Rowan. I can’t shake the feeling of unworthiness toward the life growing inside me, especially since it’s a cryptic pregnancy, and I didn’t realize I was pregnant until I was seven months along.

My delayed realization stems from repressed childhood trauma and feeling disconnected from my husband. Within six months of our wedding, stress intensifies our disconnection, pushing me into a mental health crisis where I disassociate from reality—from my very body—until one fall day, I can no longer ignore the truth: I’m pregnant.

Still feeling like I must keep up appearances, I post “Happy second wedding anniversary to my wonderful husband” on Facebook. I drag my tired body out of bed, and head to work. As I’m turning across four lanes of oncoming traffic, I glance down at my phone, clinging to this irrational hope that if enough “friends” like the post, maybe my husband will love me. My car slams to a stop. Dazed, I take in the scene—the hood of my car is completely crumpled, with smoke rising from the engine. Yet, I walk away without a scratch, and so does the other driver. 

I’m admitted to the hospital as a precaution. I’m relieved and excited because I don’t have to go to work, and I get to watch The Price Is Right all day. So, as Bob Barker’s soothing voice plays in the background, my doctor shares that although Rowan is not in danger, he is not responding well to stress tests. She plans to induce the next day, expediting Rowan’s arrival by two weeks.  We settle in for the night as I feast on my last supper before becoming a mom: Chick-fil-A. I inhale the fast-food feast of crispy golden nuggets with a hint of pickle and waffle fries, washing them down with a cookies and cream milkshake.  

I’m just starting to drift off—It’s 11:43 PM—15 hours since the accident. The calm darkness suddenly shatters as multiple nurses and doctors burst into the room, shouting, “His heart rate is dropping!

They grab me forcefully, twisting my body like we’re in some crazy WWE wrestling match. “It’s not working!” they scream. “We have to get them into surgery now!”

The medical team transforms into NASCAR drivers, racing me into a sterile, white operating room. The bright lights blind me as I’m stripped bare in front of a crowd of strangers. “There’s no time for that! Do it now,” the doctor barks at a nurse. As they lower the anesthesia mask over my face, I realize I have just a matter of seconds before I slip into unconsciousness. I utter barely above a whisper, “Save him”—and I’m not speaking to the doctor. 

I wake, feeling like no time has passed. “Where’s my son? Is he okay?" I ask the doctor sitting beside my bed. She responds, "Your son is safe and perfectly healthy," then shares my son’s entrance into the world at 11:53 PM—exactly 10 minutes, 600 seconds, after the medical team storms into my room. Within minutes, I’m cradling a 5-pound, 12-ounce bundle of perfection in my arms. He’s wearing a long-sleeve black onesie with “Be Strong” in bold white letters emblazoned across his chest. “Hello, Rowan,” I whisper, with cautious hope.  With shame rising from my soul, I ask, "did my car accident cause his heart rate to drop?" She pauses, then says, "Considering there was no extreme distress right after the accident and the time gap between it and his heart rate dropping, it seems like a random occurrence."

I gaze at Rowan with wonder and curiosity. Is it all just luck that my baby, who received almost no prenatal care, is healthy and cooing in my arms? Was it random that, on the one night of the entire year my husband and I managed to put aside our growing distance during a power outage, we conceive Rowan by candlelight to Dave Matthews “Crash into Me”—despite me being on birth control? And is it just a coincidence, that we were in the hospital, due to the accident, the same night Rowan’s heart rate plummets, unrelated to the crash, but thereby saving his life? 

No, I decide; none of this is random. Despite my crumbling marriage and deteriorating mental health, God chose me to be Rowan’s mother, going against all odds to ensure his safe arrival in this world. And all it took was a car crash for me to see the silver lining of my suffering: I’m worthy of a miracle, and I owe it to myself and my miracle child, to be strong in asserting both of our worthiness to the world.