Fifteen and Pregnant

The best years of your life!”  This statement often refers to your high school years.  In high school, you are gaining independence and freedom from your parents, and becoming more familiar and knowledgeable about the world you live in, a world that you will soon be joining upon graduation.  Your friends are everything, and your most important concern is, who’s having a party on Friday and where’s it at?  Instead, imagine your most important concern being, I need to get diapers and formula, and who can I ask to babysit while I’m in school?  These were important affairs I had to address at the age of fifteen, when I had my oldest child, Jacob.

            It was the end of June in 1989 between my freshman and sophomore year of high school, when a home pregnancy test confirmed:  I was indeed pregnant.  I was paralyzed, horrified at the thought of having to tell my parents.   I had a knot in the pit of my stomach; it was being cinched so tight, my eyes began to water.  I was instantly nausous, on the verge of vomiting, gagging on all of the thoughts racing through my mind.  How could I raise a child when I was still a child myself?  I pondered on my situation for a spell, going over all of the different scenarios in my head.  I made a decision.  I accepted the consequences of my actions.  I had to finish school, take care of my health, and change my focus from me to us.

            I made a doctors’ appointment and quit smoking.  I focused my attention on good nutrition and school.  Education suddenly became essential; I had no one to count on to support my unborn child, other than myself.  Before finding out, I was never one to eat breakfast.  However, breakfast was now an essential part of my daily routine.  I made sure that I ate three balanced meals a day.  At school, I would get two lunch trays, partly because I was so consciences about my nutritional needs, and partly because I was just hungry.   I was only 103 pounds prior to conceiving.  With my increased appetite, along with my growing baby inside me; my pregnancy was physically obvious. I gained over fifty pounds.  My belly looked like a road map with all of the stretch marks I had acquired.  My breasts were the size of watermelons; my bra size had gone from a 34B to a 36E!

At this point in time, 1989, teenage pregnancy rates were high.  I know this because it was reality for me, and I surely was not alone.  It was common for pregnant teens to leave Marquette Senior High school, and attend Bi-County Alternative school.  Perhaps this was a good choice for some of the pregnant girls, as the alternative school offered eighteen credits for graduation, where as MSHS required twenty, and Bi-County offered four class periods a day, where as MSHS had six class periods a day.  Overall, the alternative school was more socially accepting of teenage parents than the high school was.  Being persuaded to leave the high school to attend the alternative school just because I was pregnant didn’t appeal to me, so I never gave it another thought. 

Attending school pregnant was belittling and humiliating due to the reactions from both teachers and fellow students.  I was perceived by some students and teachers as promiscuous. Some teachers made comments like, “You’re not fit or deserving to be a parent, you should do what’s right and give your baby up for adoption, to a family that is willing and deserving to be parents, who can’t have children of their own.”  Fellow students would stop and stare as you passed them in the hall.  They would point their fingers and whisper things like, “I can’t believe she’s coming to school pregnant, what a slut!”   Obstinate, I was determined to graduate from high school, and I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.  I instinctively knew that with perseverance, faith, and a little help from God, that all things are possible.

My pregnancy was not without complications.  I got up for school one morning, and just didn’t feel right.  Words can’t explain what I was feeling because it really wasn’t anything physical that I could pin point and explain. It was just an unusual feeling.  I proceeded with my usual morning routine and left for school.  While I was on the bus:  my back started to ache, my stomach suddenly became hard as a rock, and I was feeling a little nauseas and light-headed.  I was having contractions.  As soon as I got to school I went to the nurse’s office and told her how I was feeling.  She called my doctor, and then called my dad to come and pick me up and bring me to the hospital.  I was overwhelmed with fear.  I knew that it was way too early for my baby to be born, as I was only twenty-four weeks pregnant. 

After my doctor examined me, he told me the news.  “You are in preterm labor.  Your cervix is soft and dilated to one.  We need to try and stop your labor.  The nurse will be in to administer steroid shots.  This will help to speed up the lung development of your baby to ensure the best possible chance for survival, in the event that we are unable to stop your labor.  I’m also going to have the nurse give you medication through your IV, which will hopefully calm your uterus and stop your contractions.”  It took all of my strength not to break down and cry, as the feeling of complete helplessness overshadowed me entirely.

Fortunately, a low dose of medication managed to stop my contractions and prevented my labor from further progression.  This was an enormous relief, and lifted the whale of stress off of my shoulders.  Even with this obstacle removed, the battle was far from over.  I still had a minimum of fourteen weeks, to ideally, carry my unborn child to full term.  I was given strict orders from the doctor upon my release from the hospital, for complete and total bed rest.  This meant that I was only allowed to go from my bed to the couch, to use the bathroom, and to shower and bathe.  Since I had such restrictions placed upon me, I had to live with my grandparents for the remainder of my pregnancy.  I received a medical release form from my doctor; it was no longer possible for me to physically attend school.   For obvious reasons, I was offered a tutor, and did all of my school work from my grandparent’s home.  Overall, I was in and out of the hospital ten times with preterm labor, but I succeeded in carrying my baby to full term.

            When I arrived at the hospital for delivery, my contractions were between two and three minutes apart, and lasting just as long. Only this time, I was in excruciating pain.   Every second seemed to be infinite.  I was dilated to four centimeters.  I was begging for drugs to relieve the pain.  “Please do something! Anything! Just make it stop!”  Just as the nurse was about to inject my IV with Demerol to give me some pain relief, the doctor decided to break my water first.  As soon as he broke my water, which hurt like hell, I started gushing blood.  My baby’s heart beat dropped significantly, and was not getting enough oxygen. I was immediately rushed to the operating room.  Internal monitors were placed on my baby’s head, and a scalpel was used to make a tiny incision on my baby’s head as well.  All of this was done to make sure that my baby’s oxygen supply was sufficient and monitored.  After relentlessly pushing for two and a half hours, my baby was finally about to enter the world.

On February 27, 1990, I gave birth to a beautiful healthy baby boy, whom I named Jacob.  Giving birth was such an awesome experience, it’s difficult to find words to describe the euphoria that is felt and that surrounds this blessed event.  The passionate attraction that instantly magnetized me to Jacob was incredible.  All of the pain I had endured throughout labor and delivery instantly vanished.  He was all the inspiration and motivation I needed to succeed.  I was going to get my education.  I was going to be the best mother I could be:   loving, caring, nurturing, teaching, and a good role model.  All of these things, to provide the love and support he would need, so that he, too, would be successful.

When Jacob was six weeks old I returned to school; daycares would not accept infants until they were six weeks.  Upon returning, I was devastated to learn that four out of six teachers were failing me because I had missed too much class time.  I was furious.  I went to talk to my counselor since I was certain that they couldn’t fail me.  I had all A’s and B’s for grades prior to being placed on bed rest.  I had a medical necessity for not being in school.  Not to mention, I had done all of my school work from home with my tutor, including my exams.  I had maintained my grades!  She agreed with me and understood my frustration.  She told me to go to the principal with my findings, and address him with my concerns of injustice that were being forced upon me.  So I did just that. I went and talked to the principal.  To my surprise and disbelief, he told me that he had talked to my teachers, and that it was ultimately the teachers’ decision as to whether a student passes or fails their class.  He stated, “If a teacher feels you missed too much class time, then you missed too much class time.  I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do about their decision.” 

I was beyond tears.  I was enraged with fury!  All of those months of study and work for nothing! I did everything that I was supposed to do; I covered all of my bases!  I did what I had to do to ensure the safety and survival of my unborn child, while continuing relentlessly with my education!  I was being responsible!  My reward for doing all this was nothing more and nothing less than, “I’m sorry, you fail four classes.”  I had no other alternative, I had to accept reality and move on.  However, I was very grateful to my two teachers who granted me their compassion and understanding, who gave credit where credit was due, and allowed me to finish and pass their classes with the grade that I earned.

The summer of 1990, summer school was offered for the first time for students who were lacking credits.  This was an opportunity for me to regain some of the credits that I was denied.  I registered for summer classes.  I took English and math.  I received an “A” in both classes.  In fact, I received the highest grade in each class, above the rest of the students.  I was proud of my academic accomplishment.  Content with my partial recovery, I was looking forward to starting my junior year of high school that fall.

Within the first week of school, I was called to my counselor’s office to meet with her.  She informed me that I was not going to receive credit for the math class that I had taken in summer.  The reason this time was because the math class was a full credit class, and I had only completed the first semester of the class (for the second time), and they weren’t willing to give me half credit.  Once again, they were trying to take away what I had earnestly earned, not once but twice.  I was pissed off!  Why would they offer a full credit class if they weren’t willing to give the half credit for which is what was offered in the summer class!  Again, I had to fight for what I had already solemnly earned!  I was directed back to the principals’ office.  This time, I won!  It took some time, but with patience and persistence, I was granted the half credit for the math class.  My junior year of high school proved to be very challenging.   My English teacher that year failed me, for once again, missing too much class time due to illness between me and Jacob, despite my “A” in his class.  Six classes with homework, in addition to my responsibility of being a single teenage parent, were seemingly overwhelming.  I finished my junior year acquiring three and a half credits for the year.

My senior year was a lot better, with the exception of the same English teacher failing me for the same reason as before.  With strategic planning, I was able to accommodate my responsibilities of being a full-time mother and student.  However, I didn’t have enough credits to graduate that year, although I was on the honor roll for the first time!  I knew that I would have to go to school for another year in order to obtain the credits which were taken from me, but I was ok with that.  By now, I was more determined than ever to receive my high school diploma, come hell or high water.  Essentially, I used all of the anger and upset to fuel my fire in a positive way.  More than anything, I wanted to prove myself to everyone who had tried to prevent me from succeeding by intentionally placing obstacles in my way, WRONG.

Being a mother at fifteen was difficult at best, having to be responsible and make decisions for a child, when I was still a child myself.  Having this experience at such a young age had an enormous impact on my life.  It was extremely difficult at times.  There were many times I wanted to give up, cried myself to sleep at night, angry and frustrated that I had so much responsibility.  I didn’t give up, however.  In June of 1993, I received my high school diploma, and in June of 2008, Jacob received his high school diploma as well.  Through it all, I hope to inspire other teenage parents in successfully graduating from high school.  I’m proof that they can overcome any obstacle that may be placed in their path.

Humanity works miracles.  If I had been shown humanity, I wouldn’t have had to suffer through the unnecessary trials and tribulations, while pursuing my education.  Teenage parents need compassion, encouragement, and understanding from school faculty. People need to keep in mind that their words and actions impress upon people, some good, and some bad.  Teenage parents are all ready treading water with all of the obstacles they are faced with; they need all of the help they can get.  Encouraging words such as, you can do it, or I believe in you, can have a colossal effect that is constructive. Taking the time and interest to help them plan their school schedules while offering support and flexibility.  Simply taking an interest in their well-being, by asking and listening to what their needs are, can make all the difference in their world.  Humanity is what teenage parents need the most.

“Are you willing to take-on the pain and suffering endured by our Lord Jesus Christ, which he suffered by crucifixion?”  What would you say to this question?  Many people throughout history have experienced stigmata.  Although, many people are skeptical as to the validity of stigmatic occurrences, it’s because they are either misinformed, or uninformed.  In fact, medical doctors and scientists have studied cases of stigmatism and have acknowledged authenticity, due to the fact that they found no explanation themselves.  Essentially, stigmata are very real and do exist. 

Stigmata are spontaneous manifestations parallel to the wounds inflicted upon Jesus prior to, and during, his crucifixion.  People describe stigmata experiences as mystical or divine.  Intense sufferings corresponding to the wounds of the Passion of the Christ are impressed upon the hands, feet, back, side and head.  These phenomena are called visible stigmata.  Sufferings that don’t bear any outward markings are called invisible or silent stigmata. 

Stigmatists or stigmatics, are people who have stigmata markings and also have a prominent sweet perfume, or rose aroma to them (Poulagustinein).  They often receive visits from the blessed virgin mother, Mary, on the thirteenth of every month, which she then dictates to them their missions. 

The history of stigmatists dates back to the thirteenth century. The year was 1224, when St. Francis of Assissi was documented as the first case of stigmata (Poulagustinein).  An “unofficial” roster has been assembled, one that is not recognized by the Church, which has approximately 321 names on it (Poulagustinein). 

Through the past centuries, there are some interesting statistics concerning stigmatists (Griffin).  Stan Griffin is a former social studies teacher, and is currently the author of approximately 300 articles for Friends and Neighbors Magazine.  He says that most stigmatists are from Roman Catholic countries and practice that religion, but Baptist and Angelican are two other churches which have reported stigmatists as well.  Many cases are found among members from religious orders of the Dominicans and the Franciscans, one hundred each, according to Griffin.  Ninety percent of the stigmatists are women, and seventy percent over all are from Italy (Holy Stigmata).  Many have reportedly died at the age of 33; the same age ofas Jesus when he was crucified (Griffin).  While many have been declared to be saints for their holiness, many instances have occurred among ordinary people as well (Holy Stigmata).

An enlightening summary of four documented stigmatists  include, St Veronica, 1697, Ethel Chapman, 1974, Heather Woods, 1993, and Father Jim Bruse, 1991 (Holy Stigmata).  Here is a brief biography on each of the four, according to an article from thefourthhealing.com:

St. Veronica Giuliani was Italian. In 1697 she received the stigmata in hands, side, and feet. A postmortem examination (done after death) showed the following–On her heart were imprints she had reported in her journal (and even sketched there) when she was alive; attending physicians wrote there was “a considerable curvature of the right shoulder, which bent the bones just as the weight of a heavy cross might have done.”

Ethel Chapman was English. In 1974 she was in a hospital, under constant medical supervision, when nurses first found her bleeding from wounds. This incident comes very close to proving that the stigmata was a completely spontaneous event. Of course, unless she was under observation 24 hours a day, it can’t be considered a proven fact.

Heather Woods was also English. Her experience which began in 1993 was likely the most closely documented. The wounds were videotaped and even shown on network television. There were marks on her feet and hands. In addition, a crescent-shaped red mark appeared on her right side and a cross appeared on her forehead on two separate occasions. Photographs were taken at each key moment. Heather had undergone surgery many times.

One of the few American stigmatists is Father Jim Bruse of Lake Ridge, just outside Washington, D.C. He was assistant priest at a suburban Catholic church. The events which took place, beginning in 1991, received a lot of publicity. Besides having pain (called “inner stigmata”) in his wrists, feet, and side, his wrists bled profusely at least once; this was witnessed by his church supervisor.   

The position of the Catholic Church remains neutral regarding stigmata.  Stan Griffin reports that the Catholic Church has accepted the fact that stigmata can be authentic.  He says that all claims are investigated, including extensive physical examinations; also, they acknowledge that many times there will be no logic, and that they can’t always explain events in simple terms. In regards to the view of the Catholic church, “They are prepared to accept that the miraculous does occur, but they are reluctant to be seen as condoning excessive behavior. To satisfy skeptics by explaining stigmata is not meant to dismiss it as “illusion, superstition, or deception” (Griffin).

Stigmata and stigmatists have had to face skeptics.   A skeptic can declare that the wounds may have been self-inflicted. In fraudulent cases, some stigmatists have been found to have deliberately reproduced marks on their own bodies. However, this does not explain ALL stigmata  One might also point-out that earlier stigmatists displayed marks in the palms of their hands, while later stigmatists reported marks on their wrists.  This could be explained by a difference in historical understanding of the nature of crucifixion and the need to have the victim kept in place on the cross (Griffin).

One thing that skeptics can’t do effectively is deny that stigmata physically exist and that it is tangible.  Physicians who examined stigmata do not succeed in curing these wounds with remedies (Poulagustinein).  Unlike natural wounds of duration, those of stimatists don’t produce rank stench, but often give forth perfumes (Poulagustinein). Also, during intense physical suffering significant blood-loss occurs; sometimes up to, or more than a pint a day may be lost.  However, stigmatists show no sign of blood loss or anemia when examined by medical professionals; this information was conveyed to me by Alex Avendano, who is a stigmatist I met in Freedom, Wisconsin.

I have personally had an awe-inspiring experience of meeting a stigmatist named Alex Avendano.  He was originally from South America and was raised Catholic.  At the age of fourteen, he traveled to Utah with Mormon missionaries, where he at the time, resided with his wife and two children.  He was approached by Our Blessed Virgin Mother, Mary, and asked if he was willing to take on the sufferings of Our Lord Jesus Christ.  He told her he would have to think about it.  Later, she returned and asked if he had made a decision.  He accepted. 

Alex had a lot of back problems, and some other medical conditions, which miraculously disappeared upon accepting his mission.  He submitted to numerous medical examinations and testing, as well as psychological testing.  None of the medical professionals could come up with any explanation as to how or why his conditions had vanished.  Also, he was investigated by the Catholic Church, whom found no fraud, nor dishonesty.  His sufferings were witnessed by many people.

Mary appeared to him on the thirteenth of every month to give him instruction of his missions.  Alex experienced all of Christ’s sufferings, both mentally and physically.  I saw pictures of his sufferings.  His wounds displayed:  the crown of thorns, holes in his palms and feet, gashes from the whips and beatings on his back, and the large gash on his side from the spear.  At times, a bloody cross would appear on his forehead.  Although he was not suffering at the time when I saw him, I did see the holes in his palms.  Moreover, he smelled like roses. 

Ted Harrison, in his book “Stigmata: A Medical Mystery in a Modern Age,” makes these statements.  “The marks provoke wonder, fear, awe, skepticism, cynicism, and both belief and non-belief… Whether the marks are psychosomatic, (mentally induced) physical, or bordering on the fraudulent (dishonest), the most important thing will be the response made by people … when they see them.  Stigmata will always be viewed with wonder and awe, and trigger … a whole range of theological questions involving the nature of God and the relationship between God and all humankind”.

In essence, people may have different theories as to the momentous purpose of stigmata, but they certainly can’t deny their existence.  I personally recommend, to everyone who may have an opportunity to experience such a phenomenon, to graciously accept and do so.  It would be your most memorable lifetime encounter.

Works Cited

Griffin, Stan. Stories by Stan Griffin. 2010. workersforjesus.com. 24 April 2010.

Harrison, Ted. Stigmata: A Medical Mystery in a Modern Age. n.p., n.d.

Holy Stigmata. thefourthhealing.com. 24 April 2010.

Mystical Stigmata. Poulagustinein, Au. The Catholic Encyclopedia. Vol.14. New York: Robert

Appleton Company, 1912.

Do you think starting college in your thirties is too late?  The answer is no.  It’s never too late to pursue a higher education for yourself.  I’ve actually experienced many benefits in being a non-traditional student, compared to a traditional student.

The maturity level of someone in their thirties is especially different from someone who is in their late teens or early twenties.  For many traditional students, school and homework are less of a priority than friends and social events, whereas non-traditional students regard school and homework an essential priority.  Older students are likely to be paying for their education themselves, unlike younger students who are likely receiving financial help from their parents for some if not all of their educational costs.  This is a key factor for the discrepancy in the maturity level, and prioritizing sequence.

Life experience is something that can’t be learned from a book.  Non-traditional students have obviously had more time to encounter many different life experiences, such as, having their own home and family to be responsible for, or having had several different job opportunities.  Comparatively, most traditional students simply have not had the time or opportunity to experience such events thus far in their lives.

Having time management skills and experience, is yet another advantage non-traditional students possess over traditional students.  Having a family and a home to care for is a full-time job; school is another full-time job, which is in-addition to your family and home.  Time management is crucial when so many responsibilities are expected for one person.  Since older students have already learned to juggle so many things at once, it is easier for them to plan and add additional activities, such as school and homework.  Although younger students have fewer responsibilities, they are also very in-experienced and have more difficulty managing their time wisely. 

In essence, having had time to experience different responsibilities and opportunities allows the non-traditional student a greater appreciation for a higher education, and perhaps a more focused and decisive direction for their education.  That is to say, for traditional students it’s simply a lack of these different life experiences and opportunities that contribute to their absent maturity levels and priority importance sequence; opposed to non-traditional students who have benefitted from these experiences.

“The best years of your life!”  This statement often refers to your high school years.  In high school, you are gaining independence and freedom from your parents, and becoming more familiar and knowledgeable about the world you live in, a world that you will soon be joining upon graduation.  Your friends are everything, and your most important concern is, who’s having a party on Friday and where’s it at?  Instead, imagine your most important concern being, I need to get diapers and formula, and who can I ask to babysit?  These were important affairs I had to address at the age of fifteen, when I had my oldest child, Jacob.

            It was the end of June in 1989 between my freshman and sophomore year of high school, when a home pregnancy test confirmed:  I was indeed pregnant.  I was paralyzed, horrified at the thought of having to tell my parents.   I had a knot in the pit of my stomach; it was being cinched so tight, my mouth and eyes began to water.  I was instantly nauseas, on the verge of vomiting, gagging on all of the thoughts racing through my mind.  How could I raise a child when I was still a child myself?  I pondered on my situation for a spell, going over all of the different scenarios in my head.  I made a decision.  I accepted the consequences of my actions.  I had to tell my parents, take care of my health, and change my focus from me to us.

            I told my parents about my pregnancy, made a doctors appointment, and quit smoking.  I focused my attention on good nutrition and school.  Education suddenly became essential; I had no one to count on to support my unborn child, other than myself.  I was never one to eat breakfast.  Breakfast was now an essential part of my daily routine.  I made sure that I ate three balanced meals a day.  At school, I would get two lunch trays, partly because I was so consciences about my nutritional needs, and partly because I was just hungry.   I was only 103 pounds prior to conceiving.  With my increased appetite, along with my growing baby inside me; my pregnancy was physically obvious. I gained over fifty pounds with my pregnancy.  My belly looked like a road map with all of the stretch marks I had acquired.  My boobs were the size of watermelons; my bra size had gone from a 34B to 36E!

Attending school pregnant was belittling and humiliating due to the reactions from both teachers and fellow students.  Some teachers made comments like, “You’re not fit or deserving to be a parent, you should do what’s right and give your baby up for adoption, to a family that is willing and deserving to be parents, that can’t have children of their own.”  Fellow students would stop and stare, as you passed them in the hall.  They would point their fingers, and whisper things like, “I can’t believe she’s coming to school pregnant, what a slut!”   Obstinate, I was determined to graduate from high school, and I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.  I instinctively knew, with perseverance, faith, and a little help from God, that all things are possible.

My pregnancy was not without complications.  I got up for school one morning, and just didn’t feel right.  Words can’t explain what I was feeling because it really wasn’t anything physical that I could pin point and explain. It was just an unusual feeling.  I proceeded with my usual morning routine and left for school.  While I was on the bus:  my back started to ache, my stomach suddenly became hard as a rock, and I was feeling a little nauseas and light headed.  I was having contractions.  As soon as I got to school I went to the nurse’s office and told her how I was feeling.  She called my doctor, and then called my dad to come and pick me up and bring me to the hospital.  I was overwhelmed with fear! “What was happening and why?  Was my baby ok?”  I knew that it was way too early for my baby to be born, as I was only twenty-four weeks pregnant. 

After my doctor examined me, he told me the news.  “You are in preterm labor.  Your cervix is soft and dilated to one.  We need to try and stop your labor.  The nurse will be in to administer steroid shots.  This will help to speed up the lung development of your baby to ensure the best possible chance for survival, in the event that we are unable to stop your labor.  I’m also going to have the nurse give you medication through your IV, which will hopefully calm your uterus and stop your contractions.”  It took all of my strength not to break down and cry, as the feeling of complete helplessness over shadowed me entirely.

Fortunately, a very low dose of medication managed to stop my contractions, and prevented my labor from further progression.  This was an enormous relief, and lifted the whale of stress, off of my shoulders.  Even with this obstacle removed, the battle was far from over.  I still had a minimum of fourteen weeks, to ideally, carry my unborn child to full term.  I was given strict orders from the doctor upon my release from the hospital, for complete and total bed rest.  This meant:  I was allowed to go from my bed to the couch, to use the bathroom, and to shower and bathe.  Since I had such restrictions placed upon me, I had to live with my grandparents for the remainder of my pregnancy.  I also had to get a tutor, and do all of my school work from my grandparent’s home.  I was in and out of the hospital ten times with preterm labor, but I succeeded in carrying my baby to full term.

            When I arrived at the hospital for delivery, my contractions were between two and three minutes apart, and lasting just as long. Only this time, I was in excruciating pain.   Every second seemed to be infinite.  I was dilated to four centimeters.  I was begging for drugs to relieve the pain.  “Please do something! Anything! Just make it stop!”  Just as the nurse was about to inject my IV with Demerol to give me some pain relief, the doctor decided to break my water first.  As soon as he broke my water, which hurt like hell, I started gushing blood.  My baby’s heart beat dropped significantly, and was not getting enough oxygen. I was immediately rushed to the operating room.  Internal monitors were placed on my baby’s head, and a scalpel was used to make a tiny incision on my baby’s head as well.  All of this was done to make sure and monitor that my baby’s oxygen supply was sufficient.  After relentlessly pushing for two and a half hours, my baby was finally about to enter the world.

On February 27, 1990, I gave birth to a beautiful healthy baby boy, whom I named Jacob.  Giving birth was such an awesome experience, it’s difficult to find words to describe the euphoria that is felt and surrounds this blessed event.  The passionate attraction that instantly magnetized me to Jacob was incredible.  All of the pain I had endured throughout labor and delivery instantly vanished.  He was all the inspiration and motivation I needed to succeed.  I was going to get my education.  I was going to be the best mother I could be:   loving, caring, nurturing, teaching, and a good role model.  All of these things, to provide the love and support he would need, so that he, too, would be successful.

Being a mother at fifteen was difficult at best, having to be responsible and make decisions for a child, when I was still a child myself.  Having this experience at such a young age had an enormous impact on my life.  It was extremely difficult at times.  There were many times I wanted to give up, cried myself to sleep at night, angry and frustrated that I had so much responsibility.  I didn’t give up, however.  In June of 1993, I received my high school diploma, and in June of 2008, Jacob received his high school diploma as well.  Through it all, I am an example; you can achieve anything that you put your mind to.  Perseverance, faith, and God makes all things possible.

Albert Einstein