Mother of a 12-year-old

At 9:45 last night, I officially became the mother of a 12-year-old. It used to make me feel old, but now it makes me feel thankful I've seen another of my precious son's birthdays.

On Nov. 3 every year, I remember the events of the day of his birth. Michael had just left for work when I experienced the signs I was going into labour. I happily waddled into his nursery to unpack the last few gifts and ensure all was in its place for his arrival.

But it wasn't all sunshine and roses on Nov. 3, 1997. At the hospital that afternoon, after the nurses took my blood pressure and a blood sample, my doctor broke the scary news that I had HELLP syndrome, a life-threatening obstetric complication, thought to be associated with pre-eclampsia. As a result, I had high blood pressure, my liver wasn't functioning properly and my platlet count was low.

The cure - an emergency C-section so I didn't get worse and go into seizures, bleed out or experience any of the other horrifying and deadly possibilities. I couldn't have an epidural to experience the birth of my first child because I could bleed out through my spine. So they completely prepped me for emergency surgery, including swabbing my abdomen with the antibiotic, so they could cut immediately after I was out.

I remember waking from the anaesthesia and Michael telling me it was a boy. I said, "Of course." But I wasn't properly awake and didn't really see him until the next morning. He was (and still is) beautiful - and healthy.

Me, on the other hand, went downhill with jaundice and lethargy the afternoon of Nov. 4. I spent three days in recovery before I was out of the woods and able to go to a regular hospital room. Once there, I recovered rapidly and relished the time with my new son (poor boy had to stay in the nursery because I wasn't healthy enough to care for him).

I almost died giving birth to Noah. But here I am, thankful for my wonderful, exasperating, caring, confrontational, imaginative, crazy, funny little boy (although I'm sure he'd hate for me to call him little). He's a tween who is almost as tall as me and changes weekly. He and I have a special bond, which I hope continues as he grows.

I sometimes worry that cancer will take me from my babies and they'll have to continue to grow up without me. Michael and Noah are so much alike, they butt heads a lot, which worries me. But somehow I can communicate with Noah, so I feel he needs me, especially because of his bipolar disorder. My mom job isn't done yet. Surely, I can't be forced to leave before it's complete.

Here's hoping I get to experience many, many more of Noah's birthdays (and perhaps even his children's birthdays).

Tina