Is it possible the last of three is leaving grade school and turning 14? It seems like yesterday I cradled a big baby, 8 pounds, 6 ounces, with delight and awe as he joined his two siblings in the Mignin household. Everyone brags about their children because there is something special about each one. Each personality that evolves is indeed a mystery that plays out as time goes on. But 14? How did that happen?

My son turns 14 today, and it’s a school day. In all the years of schooling, it’s been spring break except for one other year and today. No sleeping in, it’s a birthday at school again. Sorry, Brett.

It’s always a happy day when you celebrate any birthday. I never understood people glumly dreading a birthday or when it’s treated as just another day. It’s your day, and someone should be glad you’re here. That’s why the word “happy” precedes birthday. Celebrating Brett is a very happy day, because, quite simply, he wasn’t supposed to be born. He was a miracle of sorts, and I will always remember him in that way.

When my daughter Rachael was only 3 months old in 1992, I was diagnosed with cancer. It manifested itself as a quickly growing type after her birth, attributed to an estrogen-positive strain. Through a dreaded, aggressive campaign of chemotherapy and thrice-weekly radiation treatments, taking Rachael in her carrier to the radiation treatment center for about nine months, I was fighting for my life.

It was awful too. I had to try and act normal for my preschool son, whom I drove to school to each day while trying to enjoy my brand-new baby and carry on all the household duties as before. I stopped working part time outside the home for a few months during treatment. As I look back now and think of all the juggling of doctor visits, school and home commitments and everyday life, I realize that you just plunge in and find a way to make it work because of the intense love for your family and the desire to live. If you roll up in a ball or pretend you’re not ill, you deny the strengths you’ve been given. So even though there were many, many days of nausea, exhaustion and fear, my mantra was “full speed ahead” and “keep fighting” this horrible thing inside me.

The guilt at times was more overwhelming than the nausea or sickness, as I so wanted to play and cuddle with my baby, and sometimes that was the last thing I could do. When treatments ended, doctor visits became monthly instead of weekly and my appetite came back, it felt like I was given another chance to appreciate life and take a deep breath and just enjoy. Did I dare retreat back to normal? Was it too presumptuous?

Life did return to normal, and the sun shone, and all the chores I had had to cut back a little on, I now looked forward to. A little thing like not being able to scrub a tub because my arm was sore from removal of lymph nodes and surgery had been annoying to me. I wanted to scrub! I wanted to do it right. I had a cleaning lady one time, right after the biggest surgery and felt so guilty watching this wonderful lady cleaning the house. She was so kind and a fantastic cleaner, but I thought to myself, “I should be doing this.”

Then in 1993, when I found out I was expecting, I was thrilled to the point of goose bumps but terrified at the same time. Estrogen-positive cancer and pregnant again? What about all those horrid chemicals that had surged through my body? I read they could stay in your system for years afterward and cause other problems.

At first, I didn’t tell anyone of my pregnancy suspicions and had an official blood test at the hospital to confirm my self-diagnosis. It was positive; I was going to have a baby, even though the doctors said I would be sterile after treatment.

My husband was shocked, and my obstetrician was upset. I knew when I went to the appointment to see her and the nurse said to go into her office and not put on a gown, I was in for a talk. She was very kind, and we talked about options, but she was afraid for me. There was no guarantee the pregnancy would go well. There could be lots of complications, not even counting the possibility of birth defects. But, I was already in love. I so wanted the baby. She gave me the name of a female doctor at Presbyterian St. Luke’s who specialized in pregnancies after cancer treatments.

The kind doctor didn’t know me at all, yet gave me more than an hour of her time on the phone. I asked countless questions, and we discussed the “what ifs.” Then, finally, she asked me, “Bobbie, do you want to have this baby?” I said, “Yes.”

It was a wonderful pregnancy, just like the other two before it — no morning sickness, no problems, just a very busy schedule with working part time, being a mom to a 6-year-old and a 2-year-old, and living a life. Even though Brett arrived two weeks early during the longest labor, the joy he brought continues. His easygoing demeanor and constant smile were his most-noted attributes. If I had a dollar for every comment about his extra-sunny disposition and ever-present smile, I would be wealthy.

So “Happy Birthday, Brett” to a wonderful, still-smiley boy who has graduated from carrying around “little dog” and constantly building Lego creations to a music-loving, violin-and-World-War-II-playing kid who still hugs me! I love you. I am so glad you were born.