That’s how I was born, or at least so I was told about the time I entered puberty.
My mother was a type 1 diabetic, diagnosed at the age of 5. At the age of 15 she was diagnosed with schizophrenia; she also graduated from high school. She was a genius according to all the tests that measured intelligence in the 1950s.
When she was pregnant at the age of 20, in that condition thanks to my father, to whom she was married at the time (against her mother’s wishes, but she had married this guy after knowing him for two weeks anyway), and that particular man took off like a firework as soon as he heard the news of her expectant condition, everyone was scared. It was a very dangerous thing for a diabetic woman to try to give birth; the doctors suggested that she have an abortion. It would have been legal and medically sanctioned, long before Roe v. Wade. But she was a schizophrenic genius type 1 diabetic, and she decided she wanted to have her baby.
They prayed for her in the chapel; I was also informed at my puberty-ridden age that they prayed for her, not for us; no one praying in the chapel of St. Vincent’s Hospital cared if the baby lived or not, only that my mother would survive the ordeal of her Cesarean section birthing experience.
She did. So did I. Go figure.