I always say I never know where ro start when it comes to stories. Such is the case now. I really wanted to say that my mind is a pile of mush right now, but that isn’t exactly true. Its more like a jumbled, bubbling pot. There is soooo much in there that it is going to run over. I think of one thing, then im onto another, then even another. Hence… I don’t know where to start.
Well…. as I have been told before, start at the beginning. For today, that may just be what I do. I’ll do this because I actually can think of something from way back in the beginning. When I was an infant. Not that I actually remember back that far, but ive heard the story so many times that it’s as if I was there myself 😉
So… in the beginning, I was born. Small. I weighed 4.15 pounds when I was born. I was small.
My mother and her friend were pregnant at the same time, had their babies at about the same time, but approached things entirely different. My mother sterilized everything, sanitized, and just about every extreme caution you could take at that time to keep every possible germ and bacteria away from her tiny precious miracle. Her friend on the other hand, didn’t. She was more the type that when the pacifier dropped on the floor, she just picked it up, wiped it off, and gave it back to the child.
Funny thing about germs and bacteria, if you’re not exposed to them, you don’t build up an immunity to them. So… I came down with double pneumonia.
The doctor was honest with my mom. Usually double pneumonia in an infant isn’t very promising. It was one of those situations where a person with some years under their belt fight through the illness because they know and/or have something to fight for. That isn’t always the case with infants.
And then there was my size. I was just so small. My mother had hope, of course, but also new the possibilities.
I don’t really know details leading up to this part but this is what I was told… they had me back in the room while my mother waited. The nurse comes out covered in blood. My mother was shocked and scared. The nurse in realising her error of being seen by my mother in the state that she was in, covered in blood, hastily began to explain what had happened.
In being so small they were not having much luck trying to run an iv. Then there was the fact that I was being difficult. (Me? Difficult? Surprise, surprise.) Since I wouldn’t sit still while they ran an iv, they tied me down. My wrists were too small, so they went for the ankle. Just as they were going for my ankle, I kicked. I ended up with a slice along the whole inside of my ankle, and since I was being so difficult it took a bit to tend to the wound. I still have a scar to this day, above my ankle.
Later when the doctor was talking to my mother he had quite a different outlook on things. He had never seen an infant put up such a fight with so much strength when they were so ill.
He told my mother that I was a fighter. He had no idea just how right he was.