I’m 34 years old, and my parents had me at 23. Which means by the time they were 34, in February of 2001, they were beginning to realize that I would be needing open heart surgery within the year.
At 34, my mom watched me faint on the stage during a school concert, unable to catch me in time. Somehow, my principal got up there fast enough to catch me. I still remember the ice cream they gave me afterwards.
At 34, they were fighting with the insurance company, as pre existing conditions were still a thing (thanks for fixing that, Obama!), and Oxford decided that the hole in my ventricular septum I was born with was pre existing and therefore, uncovered.
At 34, they were balancing their dead end jobs, my school, me getting pulled out of gym class due to my VSD, figuring out how to manage the bills and rent, my constant doctor’s appointments – we had just switched cardiologists due to my previous one, um, dying.
At 34, they both worked their assess off to try to give me the best life they could. They signed me up for everything and then some more to have all of those childhood experiences of dance class and karate and art and music. They went with cheap shitty food and old worn clothes to give me what they could.
I’m 34. And my parents are my greatest treasures.
RIzz rambles 
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