Write a blog post inspired by the word: born.
Disclaimer: The following facts were told to me, I have no memory of the things that took place.
She spent eight days in the hospital that April, with labor starting and stopping. She did not want another elevator ride to the delivery room for nothing.
So she bore the pain, and didn't tell the nurses.
In her eighth month of pregnancy, my mother's OB said, "There are no signs of life, it's a tumor."
Ten years since she gave birth to her third son, she was pretty confident that she was, in fact, pregnant.
The birth almost took place in the elevator.
My dad was not chain smoking and pacing the floor of the waiting room, he was at home baking cookies with Stan, Gary and Terry.
They named the tumor Kimberly.
Premature and hideous looking (my head was badly misshapen and attached to adhesions my mother had). A blanket was thrown over my bald head so my knocked out mother couldn't see me.
They didn't let her see me for three days. So much for maternal bonding.
I was whisked away to an incubator. Weighing just four pounds, an eight month baby was not guaranteed to have a good outcome back in the Dark ages when I was born.
My parents' first (and only) daughter, freakish and fragile.
When the boys came to see my mom (they stood outside on the hospital lawn, as children were not allowed to visit), my 10 year-old brother Terry yelled, "Mom, we brought your girdle!"
In the nursery, my dad gazed through the glass at his little girl. Another dad, horrified, asked him, "Is she retarded?" A nurse verbally ripped that crass man a new one.
My head was fixed (I have a small lump and a scar on the back of my head, now covered by my hair). I spent eight days in the hospital before I got to join my family, and become daddy's little girl and the
I may be the only tumor to have children and grandchildren - talk about metastasis.
An inauspicious beginning, for sure. From a start like that, there is no way to go but up.