Matt Jackson - Young Bucks

Code Blue! Code Blue!

This was what blared over the hospital intercom at Beverly Hospital in Montebello, California, as a team of doctors ran toward the room where my mother lay in bed in the tenth hour of agonizing labor with her second child. Code Blue means a patient is having cardiopulmonary arrest and needs immediate resuscitation; what it meant to my mother was that the umbilical cord was wrapped around the babys neck. My moms doctor, Dr. Lee, told her that this was now going to turn into an emergency cesarean section delivery, and he and his team promptly stuck paperwork in my moms face, asking her to make a choice in case something were to go wrong during surgery: Whose life is the priority to save? The babys or her own?

My mom chose the baby. The surgery team quickly wheeled my mom into the operating room to prepare her. My dad was hysterical and prayed to God to spare both his wife and baby son. He held my moms hand and recited, Lord. Youre the giver of life! Youre the giver of life!

Dr. Lee made an incision, but the positioning of the baby made this difficult, and his arm was sliced as a result. My mom fell unconscious. Finally, the doctors pulled the newborn out and unwrapped the umbilical cord from his neck.

The baby boys face was blue and he was not breathing. Immediately, the doctors put a breathing mask on him and began chest compressions. Soon they used a defibrillator, which sent doses of current to his heart. His chest began to move up and down, and his breaths increased, shallow but steadily. But the work wasnt over yet. The medical staff had to clear fluid from the babys lungs, and after forty-five minutes of intense work, the operating room was finally filled with the productive sound of crying.

That baby was me. I was born Matthew Ronjon Massie on March 13, 1985. To this day, my mom and I have matching scars from the initial incision made by Dr. Leemine on my right arms bicep, hers on her midsection. My scar is a lot more visible during the winter when I dont have a bronze tan. But they arent just scars, either: theyre matching reminders of what we went through that day, of how close we came to death.

I know the story of my birth in such detail because my dad, also named Matthew, tells it to me each year on my birthday. Growing up, I recall him telling it to anyone and everyone wed meet. Wed ride ten floors down in an elevator, and by the time the elevator doors opened to a new floor, every stranger on that elevator knew I was a Code Blue Baby. It became such a reoccurring story in our household that every member of the household would scatter as soon as he began telling it.

My mom and dad are the definition of Couples Goals. They met at a church outing at Bullwinkles Family Fun Center when they were only thirteen years old. My dad, ever the charmer, approached my mom and told her how beautiful her voice was. They were dating not long after that, and by age sixteen he asked my moms father for permission to propose, which was swiftly denied. So, he waited until he was eighteen to ask again, at which time permission from her family was granted. They havent looked back since: for the thirty-nine years theyve been married, they have probably spent a total of five nights away from each other. They hold hands wherever they go, attend church together every Sunday, sing together in the car, and pretty much make all other married couples look weak in comparison.

My mom, Joyce, comes from a large family of eight and was born and raised in Chino Hills, California. She is a little thing: five foot three inches and one hundred pounds and not a lot of change. Shes blond-haired and pale and is the most soft-spoken woman youll ever meet. My dad, Matthew, comes from a family of eleven and was born and raised in La Puente, California. Hes six feet tall, has long jet-black hair, tanned skin, and is handsome and gregarious. When I was growing up, it would take fifteen minutes to check out of the grocery store line because he would strike up a conversation with the cashier. Half of my childhood involved me grabbing my dad by his hand in an attempt to pull him away from a pleasant conversation with a stranger.

My fathers openness compared to my mothers shyness seemed stark, but both of my parents had one thing in common: they were both super-Christians. Or, as I like to refer to them: Jesus Freaks. I mean absolute fanatics. Naturally, that devotion became part of the home I grew up in. Before every meal, even if we were at a restaurant, wed link hands and say a prayer. During every car ride, Mom and Dad would sing praise and worship music, encouraging us to join along.

My older sister, Donajoi, (pronounced Donna-Joy) or DJ for short, and I were best buddies. Shes about three and a half years older than me, and always babysat me in those early years. She was a wonderful playmate who taught me how to use my imagination whenever we sang, danced, and tumbled in the living room. I remember she and I would hold our ears to cups and press them against our parents door in order to listen in on their conversations. We didnt know what was going on in that room, but we knew the moans and groans coming from the other side of the wall sounded silly. Luckily, we had the wherewithal not to investigate them further.

My sister and I had so many toys between us that my parents would store them all in a giant gray Rubbermaid trash bin. Every day we would play a game called Barbies and Hulk where shed use her Barbies and Id use my collection of World Wrestling Federation LJN figures. These toy figures arent like todays figures: they were rubber, heavy, and the paint chipped from them as soon as you touched them. The body parts didnt move. Oh, and if you had a pet, the fingers and arms of the figures would be chewed off almost instantly. My very first wrestling figure was Jesse the Body Ventura, which I still have to this day. Some figures were not so lucky as to survive my youth, though. When I was two years old, my family went on a trip to Hawaii. While at the ocean with my favorite Hulk Hogan figure, a big wave came and launched the toy from my hand. My Hulk was lost forever, and I was devastated. For years after, whenever my parents would ask me where my Hulk figure went, I would look out into the distance and dramatically say, Hulk went bye-bye in the ocean.