[On Thursday, February 11th, I delivered the monologue below at a fundraiser for Planned Parenthood of Greater Memphis. It was such an honor to be asked to share my story. When thinking of a “title” I kept hearing Whitney Houston in my head. In her words, “I Survived my darkest hour. My faith kept me alive. I picked myself back up, held my head up high. I was not built to break. I didn’t know my own strength.”]

10 years ago. 10 long years ago. It seems like it was just yesterday. 10 years ago my life completely changed. I never knew how strong my faith was until that year. Truth be told, my family calls me “Nine Lives” because I have had more near-death experiences than I really choose to count. Yet, after each occurrence my mom and Grandmama would always tell me God has a purpose for you on this earth. They would say it’s all part of His plan.

February 27, 2006: It was my 26th birthday. My boyfriend, who lived in Chicago, surprised me in Indianapolis, my hometown. My close friend and her boyfriend treated me to dinner, and then they seemed to take the long way back to my house which I thought was quite odd. My boyfriend was in the house setting up what had to be dozens of candles and hundreds of rose petals. Needless to say….my best friend and her boyfriend didn’t stay long. Like I said….it was my birthday after all!

I had never been happier. Life was good. I had an excellent career. My family was supportive. My friends were amazing.

But all that happiness and joy came to a screeching halt on March 9th. The evening started with laughter and smiles as my youngest brother and I watched American Idol (the first round of auditions…..with all of the characters). He brought me dinner, and we relaxed and spent quality brother-sister time together.

After he left, I went to sleep. I was suddenly unusually tired. At 2 a.m. I awoke from my sleep with an indescribable pain in my stomach. See….I was pregnant and expecting my first child….a girl. It was too early to have contractions. I thought maybe my stomach was mad at me for eating the Mexican food for dinner. But the pain kept increasing by the minute.

Being the independent woman I am (and seeing as how my boyfriend lived in Chicago), I drove myself to the hospital….it was literally just across the street. Within an hour, my blood pressure dropped dangerously low, my heart rate slowed and my body temperature rose to over 104 degrees. Something caused me to become very sick….and I was on the verge of septic shock.

My doctor was forced to induce my labor because the infection had crossed into my amniotic sac. I was dying and so was my daughter. Even though I was in and out of consciousness, I still managed to remember every minute of every hour on that day…..My family arriving from all over the country….the sounds of the fetal monitors……my heart monitor beeping…..and at times, nothing but silence as time seemed to just stand still.

My doctor couldn’t perform a C-section because of the infection. I almost certainly would not have survived. After enduring more than 24 hours of labor, at 12:47 a.m. on Saturday, March 11, A’Layla Marie exited my body and entered this world as a stillborn baby. There are no words to describe that kind of anguish and pain. 

I didn’t think I could take anymore. My heart was broken….in a million different pieces. Little did I know that was just the beginning of what would become the six worst months of my entire life.

Just a few short months later, I was the victim of a head-on car collision which caused swelling on my brain and ’round the clock migraines.

Then, on August 22nd, while home still recuperating from my injuries, I received THE call no child ever wants to get. My dad had suddenly fallen to the ground in the bathroom of our family home and suffered a massive heart attack. I was forced to return to the same hospital where my daughter died only to be told my dad was also dead. I distinctly remember dropping to my knees in the Emergency Department, looking to the sky and asking God “WHY? Why me? Why my family?” Days later I remember my Grandmama reminding me, once again, that God always has a plan.

I have never vocalized what happened on that fateful day in March nor the months that followed. I’ve written about it a few times on my personal blog and Facebook but never to an audience. Despite everything we endure, God always has a way of subtly reminding us just how much strength we really have. Anyone who knows me knows I believe in divine intervention. The invitation to share my story with all of you was most definitely all God’s handy work.