This Is My Normal, This Is My Life

By Sarah Wurzbach

After surviving a very traumatic birth, you would think that my rough days would be pretty much over, but that couldn't have been further from the truth. By the age of 15 I had dealt with the death of both of my paternal grandparents and my mother, just to name a couple of things. Those life events in themselves very nearly broke me, but over the years I have learned that nothing happens by accident, and is only meant to make you stronger for what is to come. Everyone and everything thing in life serves this purpose. I am living proof of that,
I never knew that what I was facing at the time, would lead me to my future and give me experiences that I would need to refer back to years later.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716330728

Book preview

cover-image, Normal Life2

This is My Normal, This is My Life.

By

Sarah Wurzbach

©2020 All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1

My name is Sarah Elisabeth Wurzbach and I was born on Tuesday, October 22, 1985, at 8:10 p.m.

When people talk about the day they were born, they will tell you the typical story of how the mother goes in to labor, the father rushes to her side, the baby was born. They will tell you how the family would ooooh and ahhhh over how cute he or she was; and how they have their mama’s eyes and their daddy’s nose, and so on.  When I talk about the day I was born though, it is anything other than typical. In fact, my birth turned out to be an ordeal that no one, not my parents, grand parents or even this town ever saw coming. Actually, it’s  nothing short of a true miracle that I am even here.

What I remember being told is that when my mom went into labor she yelled for my dad to come quick because her water had broken and he rushed her to Sacred Heart Hospital. Once they got there, things seemed to be going normally for the first few hours but then everything took a sharp turn and headed south. My mama told me that after being in labor for over 20 hours with me, she overheard the nurses and doctor talking, and she heard one of them say that I wasn’t tolerating the contractions anymore, to which the doctor replied Give her Pitocin and lets see if we can’t get this baby out. For those who don’t know, Pitocin is a drug that is given that causes an increase in contractions. 

With each dose given and each contraction my heart rate would dip lower and lower, but the doctor kept giving the same instruction: push the Pitocin.

At one point, the suggestion of a cesarean section was brought in to question, and the doctor was overheard saying, I’ve already done three C-sections today, I’m not doing another one. So things continued to be forcefully progressed until finally the time had come for my mom to start pushing. Things were looking up…or so they thought.

Mama told me that as she was pushing, progress suddenly came to a screeching halt because I had become trapped in the birth canal  and was without oxygen for quite some time; but even still the doctor continued to give doses of Pitocin. After a while I suppose he decided that his original plan wasn’t going to work, because he moved on to plan B which was to use forceps and complete the delivery that way. This plan turned out to be the beginning of my parents’ worst nightmare.

When the forceps were used, the doctor squeezed them against my head, proceeding with what was known as a high forceps delivery and pulled while Mama pushed. The only problem was, he used entirely too much force which, resulted in the left side of my skull being fractured, a collapsed lung, and a list of other injuries.

Can you imagine? Planning and preparing for the arrival of your first baby and once that day arrives, instead of the joy and happiness of the perfect birth plan that ends with nurses laying your brand new, perfect baby girl on your chest, you are met with doctors and nurses scurrying around you in massive panic. They will not let you see your baby up close, much less hold her. Instead they are hovering over her, attaching lead wires to her little body, flipping switches to monitors, and placing an Ambu bag over her tiny nose and mouth and breathing air into her precious little lungs. This is every parent’s worst nightmare, having to fight for your child’s life before it has barely even begun.

I have pictures of that day that I assume were taken by my daddy, and two in particular stand out the most. The first is a picture of my mother, laying in a hospital bed during what I assume is the early stages of labor. I only assume this because there was still a beautiful glowing smile on her face and I haven’t met many people who had a smile on their face during the most intense moments leading up to the birth of their children.

The second picture however, tells an entirely different story. It is a picture of my mother and I, and I’m guessing it was taken just a minute or two after my arrival; because instead of the typical first photo of a mother holding her baby with a look of sheer exhaustion and joy on her face, I see my mama laying helplessly on a gurney. She has one hand on her chest and the other covering her mouth in disbelief at the scene that is unfolding in front of her. A tear is running out of her coffee brown eye,  down her tan, freckled cheek, and her head is turned away from the camera. Over to her right is my tiny, blue, lifeless body, all 6 pounds, 14 ounces, and 23 inches of me.  A swarm of doctors and nurses are shaving off sections of my dark, black hair and placing needles in my scalp, working to bring me back to this side of heaven. Mama told me that she had never prayed harder for anything in her life, either before or since  that day.

Following that day, were six long weeks in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit with lots of tests and tears, lots of doctors, and more importantly, lots and LOTS of prayers. Mama and Daddy knew that those prayers were going to be needed especially given my prognosis. They were told that IF I survived I would probably be in a vegetative state at most, and was diagnosed with Mild Cerebral Palsy and a right-sided hemiparesis, which is a mild weakness that is usually evident on one side of the body in the face, arm, or leg, much like that a stroke victim. They were also told that I would more than likely never walk, talk, or have a productive life. Mama refused to accept that as the final answer and vowed to fight both tooth and nail for me; which she did until the day she took her last breath. In fact, some might say it was me that she was fighting for even then, but I’ll tell you about that later on.

When I tell you that Mama refused to accept the diagnosis I had been given, there is truly no way to accurately describe this woman’s strength and determination. She immediately had me seeing all the best doctors and physical and occupational therapists she could find. One of the exercises that I remember her telling me about from when I was just an infant was that she had to put a rubber baby spoon on the tip of my tongue and gradually progress backward to help those muscles and try to reverse the horrible gag reflex that I had. She would take me every six months religiously to be fitted for a new leg brace.  These fittings would always take place at what is now Hanger Prosthetics. I remember always saying hi to a thin, short-haired woman named Pam who worked at the front desk, and calling Tom, the man that did the fitting, Coldy Coldy. I guess I gave him that name because for the fitting, they had to use plaster of Paris to make a cast mold of my leg, and they always used ICE COLD water to do it!

Mama would also take me to physical therapy appointments multiple times a week to strengthen my right side and to work on my coordination and balance, and while to them it was very focused training and rehab, to me it was fun and games. They would have me do things like climb ladders, go up and down stair cases, jump on trampolines, play stick ball, kick ball, bowling, softball, and even roller-skate all over the therapy room! But of course there was always a catch, if I wanted to play these games with the physical therapists that became like family to me, I had to do it right handed or lead with my right leg or foot. Yes, there were many times that I sat in the middle of the room crying and clearly threw a tantrum, but they realized that it was difficult for me and I was frustrated and in turn they were very patient with me.

Therapy at West Florida Hospital continued until I was 7 years old. On the day of my last session, there was a giant cardboard box with Miss Sarah written on top in black Sharpie marker. I had passed it a few times and finally, Caressa, my therapist, told me to grab that box and come to the mats, to which I reluctantly agreed. When I opened the box, all my friends were standing around me, along with Mama, smiling and crying. The box was stuffed full of therapy toys that I could take home to play with, just like the ones they had there. There was also a card from each of the employees and some of my favorite candy and Bubble Jug bubble gum. Someone had even put two quarters into an envelope so that on my final walk down the hall, I could stop at the Coke machine and get one more can of Barqs root beer. Something that Mama would let me get if I had done my best and given one hundred and ten percent during the days therapy session. 

We lost touch with them shortly after that, but I have never forgotten them.

Chapter 2

In the days following my discharge from the hospital, things began to quickly disintegrate in the relationship between my mom and dad, and the main causes for that included infidelity and domestic violence. I am only aware of the cause because of the information I was given by both of them over the years.  Mama loved him with all of her heart, but eventually left because she couldn’t take the heartbreak and embarrassment any more. 

There were two instances that I was told about by Mama,  concerning these situations. The first occurred when I was just an infant, and Mama had no idea where Daddy was. He had been gone for a long time and she had already had her suspicions that he was having an affair, so she decided to leave me with my grandmother to go find him.  Mama said that when my grandmother asked her where she was going and what her plan was, she told her,

I’m going to the marina and if he’s there I’m going to confront him.

Mama said when my grandmother heard her response, she paused for a minute, handed her a tire iron, and said,

Here! Take this with you! 

Now, at this point I feel like I have no choice but to take a rabbit trail and explain the history behind the famous tire iron. 

See, back in1964, my dad was married to his first wife and together they had two children. Well, during the birth of their daughter and my half sister, Monica, my grandmother was at the hospital with my dad’s first wife, and her parents.  I’m not sure where my dad was during all of this,  but at some point during a conversation, my dad’s mother-in-law was asked where the father of the baby was. She proceeded to say that the baby didn’t have a father. Well, as you can imagine this infuriated my grandmother so my grandmother followed her home and waited for her to get out of the vehicle. Once she got out, my grandmother pulled the tire iron from under her seat, chased this woman down and hit her with it, breaking her arm, and then pushed her down into a mud puddle.

Now that you know the history of the famous tire iron, you know that for my grandmother to hand it to Mama, she meant business regardless of the fact that the man in question was her one and only son.

Mama told me that she indeed took the item and placed it in the seat next to her and was shaking like a leaf during the entire drive. Once she got to the marina and saw my dad’s truck,  she said that she walked to the boat and didn’t just politely knock on the door to the cabin of the boat. No! She began to use the tire iron to beat violently on the door until he answered it.

She told me that when Dad opened the door, the woman he was with was standing next to him and that they were both in their underwear. Apparently they all stood there for a while and no one spoke a word. As Mama looked at both of them, she seriously contemplated hitting him over the head with it , especially after he looked down and saw her holding it, but then decided that it wasn’t worth the repercussions.  With still no words spoken, she turned and walked away with a white-knuckle grip on the tire iron.  She then got in the car and drove back to my grandmother’s house, tears pouring down her face the entire way back. Once she got back to the house, my grandmother asked her how everything went. Mama said all she could