I’ve come to understand that the lives of humans can best be described as struggles. Quite obviously, they are fights to survive, but I believe this description cuts a little deeper than that. Human life is a struggle to understand and learn about the world, as well as the people that populate it. It is a struggle to find meaning in a meaningless existence, and it is a constant fight to improve upon the world so it better matches how we believe it should be. However, this definition of life in no way suggests that its arduousness is so great that it’s no longer worth enduring. On the contrary, its daunting nature is all the more reason to love it, for happiness comes most notably from weathering the worst of storms.
If this is true that joy arrives from persisting in trying times, then I should be the most gleeful person to have ever existed. And in many ways, I am, but that hasn’t always been the case. The storms that clouded my life have battered my earthly vessel, leaving it weak and vulnerable to even the kindest of winds. At times I felt as if I had been chosen to be the punching bag of the world, feeling every cruel blow sent my way but incapable of defending myself or even throwing a few strikes back.
I suppose this unfortunate reality of mine began at my birth. When I was born, I was dangerously premature. The assortment of cells that would come to represent me had only existed for a mere 23 weeks, and by some cruel plan or misfortune, I was ejected from the womb far to early. Fearing I didn’t have long to live, the doctors warned my parents not to name me quite yet. Their line of work brought with it the knowledge that, considering the severity of my prematurity and the minimal resources they had to help me, my chances of survival were essentially none.
Initially, I was very small, weighing a little less than 2 pounds, and because of that, I had difficulties maintaining my internal body temperature. The doctors’ first worry was that I’d get hypothermia, so they made sure to keep me as warm as possible. However, they soon realized that there were plenty of other complications they had to worry about.
From the get go, I had difficulties breathing, and the issue only got worse as the days went by. Apparently, I had a disease known as Infant Respiratory Distress Syndrome, something common for premature babies. My lungs weren’t producing enough of a lipoprotein called surfactant, which was causing the problem. The doctors attempted to fix this by giving me an artificial surfactant through a breathing tube, but the treatment wasn’t working very effectively, and since they didn’t have any other options, the odds of me living weren’t very good.
To make matters worse, I ended up getting a bacterial infection in my blood, and not only did my underdeveloped immune system have difficulty fighting it off, but it caused an inflammatory response in my body known as sepsis. All of these problems, coupled with the fact that the makeshift hospital I was in didn’t have the resources to deal with the problem, lead to the doctors deciding that I’d be a lost cause. They would still be trying to save me, but they also told my parents that I’d likely die within a couple of days.
My parents often told me about those few days where they were certain I was going to die, and each time they described it, they told me about how they entered the room where I was being treated, and refused to leave it. They wanted to spend as much time as they could watching over me, knowing full well that their first child didn’t have long to live. My mother would sit next to my crib in the intensive care nursery, my father standing behind her, and weep over me.
Those were a difficult first few days of my existence for them. Neither of my parents could get any sleep, nor could they eat. All they could do was watch my labored breathing, fearing and expecting the worse. Sometimes I feel responsible for the anguish that was inflicted upon my parents during this time. I understand that it was by no means my fault, but irrational fears have plagued me my entire life. Even though it makes no sense for me carry this burden, and even though I’m an otherwise very rational person, I do carry it. It’s a mystery I have no answer for, and it’s a mystery I doubt I will ever resolve.
Days slowly turned into weeks, and after a few of those, the doctors began to reevaluate my odds of living. I was still extremely small compared to other babies, and I continued to have problems staying warm. However, it was getting easier for me to breathe and the effects of the sepsis were beginning to dissipate. Somehow, I managed to overcome this massive hurdle in my life, so the doctors allowed my parents to name me.
Both my mom and dad hadn’t settled on a name for me at this time, so they often asked my extended family for their opinion. Believing that my survival was an act of the Gods and that they had blessed me for a reason, most of my family agreed that I should be named Tiponi, literally meaning child of importance.
Although they agreed that I had been spared for a reason, they didn’t end up naming me that. Instead, they pulled my name from the Wha-Zha-Zhe, our people’s holy book. In it, there is a parable about Nukpana, the spirit of the Wild. In order to ascend to godhood, he was ordered to slay three creatures that lived in the natural realm. When he came across a family of deer, he swiftly murdered the parents. However, just before he was about to kill the fawn, he relented, refusing to slaughter it. Instead, he named it Niabi, meaning fawn spared by the hunter. Because of this, Nukpana never attained godhood, but he is still well respected by my people for his mercy.
In the end, my parents named me Niabi, believing me to be analogous to the fawn in the parable. They felt the Gods had been hunting me, but for some reason, they did not take my life, and although they were grateful that I had been allowed to live, they resented the suffering they made me endure.
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