My nephew's wife stopped by with their 6wk. old baby girl for a visit this morning. I call Katalina my "bbf 'birthday buddy forever'" because she was born on my birthday. How cool is that!
As Monica and I talked about how to get the baby to sleep better especially during the night, I rocked the infant and snuggled her close to my bosom. Occasionally I'd look down at her cherub face and my heart would be filled with extreme joy. It was during those moments that I realized that I was holding one that had great potential to renew the face of the earth. And, I thought, much like the Babe born in a manger all those many years ago, this child, too, could be a savior for the terrible troubles the world finds itself in today.
And then, another idea occurred to me. I don't know how many infants are born each and every day, but if we could harness all the potential they possess, we could conceivably renew the face of earth in less than a century from now. How cool is that!
The 90 minutes we spent together today lifted my spirits beyond measure. I'm getting older; I want so much more for the generations to come. I want children to be born into a world of peace and love. I want families to live together in harmony. I want neighbors to work and play together for the good of everyone. I want religion to embrace their believers as well as all others who profess different beliefs. I want education to advocate independent thinking as opposed to conformity for its own sake.
I want government to be of the people, by the people, and for the people.
And I know all of this and so much more can happen because I looked into the face of an angel today
and realized that she, along with all of the babies being born as we speak, can and will renew the face of the earth. How cool is that!
Monday, October 21, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
The Autumn of My Life
At 69, I find myself in the autumn of my life. Since autumn has always been my favorite time of year, I'm happy to be here. For me the beauty of this season is without parallel. The air, the colors, the smells, the holidays are just a few of the many glorious gifts autumn bestows.
Now retired, I have plenty of time to take long walks with my hubby and dog, Shadow. The crisp air fills my lungs with pure freshness. Sometimes, if a neighbor is burning leaves, that smoky fragrance curling into my nose conjures up memories of my youth, raking, romping through, and finally incinerating piles and piles of dry, crackling leaves.
And the colors, oh, the colors! Living in Pennsylvania in autumn is akin to being in one of Norman Rockwell's picturesque paintings. Gorgeous reds, yellows, oranges, purples, and greens are splashed across the hillsides resembling a heaping bowl of Trix cereal without the marshmallows, of course. In my autumn years, I've become more colorful, too. My thoughts are more vibrant, my words, more intense, and my actions, well I'm doing things I would never have considered in my younger days and don't care a lick about what anybody else thinks! Including you, my dear bloggers!
Cinnamon and vanilla are the two smells I most associate with autumn. Apple Crisp, fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, and tapioca pudding were constant Saturday fare in my baba's kitchen. I loved to sit in her rocking chair and just smell. As soon as the rolls were out of the oven, I'd con her into giving me one or two; this way I could let her know if they were up to her usual standards. Now I drink cinnamon lattes and wear vanilla-scented body lotion! Hey, the yuppie generation has nothing on this ole gal!
And, as a kid, my favorite holiday was Halloween. We didn't have store-bought costumes. Instead we spent tons of time thinking of what we wanted to be. Then we'd dig through the house to find all the stuff needed to become that being. Once I was a hobo, another time, a clown, and still another time, a "Charleston" chick.
Halloween undoubtedly remains the best holiday in my book. In the third season of my life, I continue to bum around, act the fool, and kick up my heels on the dance floor when I get the opportunity. The only difference is my kicks are not quite as high! Who cares, I can cut a rug just as good as anyone I've seen on Dancing with the Stars lately.
Ah-huh, I'm in the autumn of my life and loving it. I celebrate each day with a smile and a healthy zest for living and learning. It's beautiful here in autumn; everything is beautiful at this time of year.
And, I'm having the time of my life!
Now retired, I have plenty of time to take long walks with my hubby and dog, Shadow. The crisp air fills my lungs with pure freshness. Sometimes, if a neighbor is burning leaves, that smoky fragrance curling into my nose conjures up memories of my youth, raking, romping through, and finally incinerating piles and piles of dry, crackling leaves.
And the colors, oh, the colors! Living in Pennsylvania in autumn is akin to being in one of Norman Rockwell's picturesque paintings. Gorgeous reds, yellows, oranges, purples, and greens are splashed across the hillsides resembling a heaping bowl of Trix cereal without the marshmallows, of course. In my autumn years, I've become more colorful, too. My thoughts are more vibrant, my words, more intense, and my actions, well I'm doing things I would never have considered in my younger days and don't care a lick about what anybody else thinks! Including you, my dear bloggers!
Cinnamon and vanilla are the two smells I most associate with autumn. Apple Crisp, fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, and tapioca pudding were constant Saturday fare in my baba's kitchen. I loved to sit in her rocking chair and just smell. As soon as the rolls were out of the oven, I'd con her into giving me one or two; this way I could let her know if they were up to her usual standards. Now I drink cinnamon lattes and wear vanilla-scented body lotion! Hey, the yuppie generation has nothing on this ole gal!
And, as a kid, my favorite holiday was Halloween. We didn't have store-bought costumes. Instead we spent tons of time thinking of what we wanted to be. Then we'd dig through the house to find all the stuff needed to become that being. Once I was a hobo, another time, a clown, and still another time, a "Charleston" chick.
Halloween undoubtedly remains the best holiday in my book. In the third season of my life, I continue to bum around, act the fool, and kick up my heels on the dance floor when I get the opportunity. The only difference is my kicks are not quite as high! Who cares, I can cut a rug just as good as anyone I've seen on Dancing with the Stars lately.
Ah-huh, I'm in the autumn of my life and loving it. I celebrate each day with a smile and a healthy zest for living and learning. It's beautiful here in autumn; everything is beautiful at this time of year.
And, I'm having the time of my life!
Monday, October 7, 2013
Children Suffer From Depression, Too
This Thursday, October 10, is National Depression Screening Day. The number of adults suffering from depression in our country is staggering. Fortunately what was considered to be a taboo topic of discussion years ago has now been declared a national concern.
And now that this crippling disease has finally been outted, how to effectively educate folks on the symptoms and treatment for depression has taken center stage. Diagnosing adult depression is relatively easy to pinpoint. Feelings of prolonged sadness, debilitating lethargy, disinterest in social activities, work absences, changes in eating habits, and dramatic increase or decrease in weight are among the most significant earmarks that one is depressed. Seeking medical attention early on can certainly ease if not totally eradicated most or all of these symptoms. With proper treatment, the depressed person can return to a feeling of good health and be productive and happy.
However, young children can suffer from depression, too. But depression in children is sometimes extremely difficult to diagnose, and can go unnoticed for many years. First, we must all be aware that children as young as two can be clinically depressed. Usually these tots are being raised in a very dysfunctional home, and have been subjected to physical and emotional mistreatment. If not recognized, their suffering can last a lifetime.
Not all depressed youngsters however come from dysfunctional homes where they experienced daily abuse. Sometimes it takes just one traumatic event that can cause a child to spiral into the depths of deep depression. And, unfortunately, because they are so young and the adults around them simply believe that they don't understand what has happened, these children begin to act out inappropriately and are many times labeled difficult and unruly.
I was that child. I believe I became extremely depressed after my dad was killed in a work-related accident in 1948. I was three years old. Although I clearly remember his viewing, his funeral, and his interment, I don't remember anyone ever asking me how I felt or even attempted to talk to me about my dad's passing. My childhood pictures from the time of his death showed me as a serious-faced tot whose eyes never danced with the light of true happiness. I never talked much and went from a skinny kid to an overweight 6 year old. I feared authority because of the power they had; after all, look what happened to my dad and he was my strong, invincible hero. If "they" could end his life, doing me in would be a piece of cake.
I carried my suffering around for many, many years. At the age of 39 I was afflicted with a neurological condition that few specialists had ever seen in their practices. For two years I bounced from doctor to doctor without being properly diagnosed. Finally, in 1983, I found a physician who, although he wasn't able to identify my ailment, sent me to a prominent psychologist. During my sessions with him, we not only pinpointed what I had, but determined I was depressed and probably had been since the age of three. With continued counseling and further treatment, the dark fog of this insidious disease gradually lifted. I could look in the mirror and finally see the light shining from my eyes the way it did when my dad and I were together.
To say that I was cured and never would deal with depression again would be false. But, now I know the symptoms, know where to go and what to do to curtail its duration, and can return to normal in a very short amount of time. I believe that what happened to me at the age of three is the foundation of my entire life and is what has led me to my passion for the health and welfare of young children.
Children can and do suffer from depression. Please keep your eyes, minds, and hearts open, talk to your children about serious issues that arise even though they may be very young, let them express their feelings freely, and, above all, take them for proper treatment early if you only suspect that their sadness and change in behavior just might be signs of depression. Better safe than sorry, I always say!
And now that this crippling disease has finally been outted, how to effectively educate folks on the symptoms and treatment for depression has taken center stage. Diagnosing adult depression is relatively easy to pinpoint. Feelings of prolonged sadness, debilitating lethargy, disinterest in social activities, work absences, changes in eating habits, and dramatic increase or decrease in weight are among the most significant earmarks that one is depressed. Seeking medical attention early on can certainly ease if not totally eradicated most or all of these symptoms. With proper treatment, the depressed person can return to a feeling of good health and be productive and happy.
However, young children can suffer from depression, too. But depression in children is sometimes extremely difficult to diagnose, and can go unnoticed for many years. First, we must all be aware that children as young as two can be clinically depressed. Usually these tots are being raised in a very dysfunctional home, and have been subjected to physical and emotional mistreatment. If not recognized, their suffering can last a lifetime.
Not all depressed youngsters however come from dysfunctional homes where they experienced daily abuse. Sometimes it takes just one traumatic event that can cause a child to spiral into the depths of deep depression. And, unfortunately, because they are so young and the adults around them simply believe that they don't understand what has happened, these children begin to act out inappropriately and are many times labeled difficult and unruly.
I was that child. I believe I became extremely depressed after my dad was killed in a work-related accident in 1948. I was three years old. Although I clearly remember his viewing, his funeral, and his interment, I don't remember anyone ever asking me how I felt or even attempted to talk to me about my dad's passing. My childhood pictures from the time of his death showed me as a serious-faced tot whose eyes never danced with the light of true happiness. I never talked much and went from a skinny kid to an overweight 6 year old. I feared authority because of the power they had; after all, look what happened to my dad and he was my strong, invincible hero. If "they" could end his life, doing me in would be a piece of cake.
I carried my suffering around for many, many years. At the age of 39 I was afflicted with a neurological condition that few specialists had ever seen in their practices. For two years I bounced from doctor to doctor without being properly diagnosed. Finally, in 1983, I found a physician who, although he wasn't able to identify my ailment, sent me to a prominent psychologist. During my sessions with him, we not only pinpointed what I had, but determined I was depressed and probably had been since the age of three. With continued counseling and further treatment, the dark fog of this insidious disease gradually lifted. I could look in the mirror and finally see the light shining from my eyes the way it did when my dad and I were together.
To say that I was cured and never would deal with depression again would be false. But, now I know the symptoms, know where to go and what to do to curtail its duration, and can return to normal in a very short amount of time. I believe that what happened to me at the age of three is the foundation of my entire life and is what has led me to my passion for the health and welfare of young children.
Children can and do suffer from depression. Please keep your eyes, minds, and hearts open, talk to your children about serious issues that arise even though they may be very young, let them express their feelings freely, and, above all, take them for proper treatment early if you only suspect that their sadness and change in behavior just might be signs of depression. Better safe than sorry, I always say!
Monday, September 30, 2013
The Most Horrific of American Crime
As I was flicking through the TV guide this weekend, I came across a 2009 movie that I had never heard of and, after reading the description, thought I'd give it a go. "American Crime," a true story,was one of the most disturbing films I have ever seen. The focus of the movie was on extreme child abuse in America in the 1960s.
Without going into detail about the graphic depiction of child abuse portrayed, I can say that whatever you could possibly imagine with respect to this despicable crime was shown and then some. It made me sick to my stomach.
The little girl who was guilty only of being truthful, caring, and protective of the others in this household was mistreated beyond belief. To say that the mother who initiated and then perpetuated such horrific torture was weak-minded and perhaps treated badly as a child herself is simple not an excuse we should accept. She was the adult; she knew what she did and what she allowed the rest of her children to do was wrong. She relished the control she had over the victim as well as the control she brandished on the victimizers.
When this child finally succumbed to the inhumanization she was subjected to on a daily basis, the mother was brought to trial. She, of course, denied that she inflicted any pain of the girl, complained she was not in good health, and couldn't supervise her six children every minute of the day and night.
She accepted no responsibility for the child's death.
I pray that such evil no longer exists in America. But, I know it does. My heart bleeds for the children who endure horrible torture day in and day out even in the year 2013. Many of them just don't have the courage to speak out; many of them have no one to tell.
As an educator for all of my professional career, one of my priorities was to be vigilant with respect to the physical, mental and emotional status of my students. If a child came to class, dirty, hungry, and/or bodily marred, I made it a point to investigate and report it. Later on as an administrator, I encouraged all of my staff to execute due vigilance as well. I know we did what we could; I also know we didn't do enough and that such abuse continued right under our very noses without detection.
Ultimately the mother was convicted of first degree murder and was sentenced to life in prison. However, after serving only 20 years, she was released in 1985. She died in 1990.
The people who commit such vile actions should be put away for life without the possibility of parole. Yes, child abuse is perpetrated throughout the world, but to still run rampant in America where we pride ourselves as a civilized nation who value our young, it is a crime! It was a crime in the 1960s; it's still a crime today.
Without going into detail about the graphic depiction of child abuse portrayed, I can say that whatever you could possibly imagine with respect to this despicable crime was shown and then some. It made me sick to my stomach.
The little girl who was guilty only of being truthful, caring, and protective of the others in this household was mistreated beyond belief. To say that the mother who initiated and then perpetuated such horrific torture was weak-minded and perhaps treated badly as a child herself is simple not an excuse we should accept. She was the adult; she knew what she did and what she allowed the rest of her children to do was wrong. She relished the control she had over the victim as well as the control she brandished on the victimizers.
When this child finally succumbed to the inhumanization she was subjected to on a daily basis, the mother was brought to trial. She, of course, denied that she inflicted any pain of the girl, complained she was not in good health, and couldn't supervise her six children every minute of the day and night.
She accepted no responsibility for the child's death.
I pray that such evil no longer exists in America. But, I know it does. My heart bleeds for the children who endure horrible torture day in and day out even in the year 2013. Many of them just don't have the courage to speak out; many of them have no one to tell.
As an educator for all of my professional career, one of my priorities was to be vigilant with respect to the physical, mental and emotional status of my students. If a child came to class, dirty, hungry, and/or bodily marred, I made it a point to investigate and report it. Later on as an administrator, I encouraged all of my staff to execute due vigilance as well. I know we did what we could; I also know we didn't do enough and that such abuse continued right under our very noses without detection.
Ultimately the mother was convicted of first degree murder and was sentenced to life in prison. However, after serving only 20 years, she was released in 1985. She died in 1990.
The people who commit such vile actions should be put away for life without the possibility of parole. Yes, child abuse is perpetrated throughout the world, but to still run rampant in America where we pride ourselves as a civilized nation who value our young, it is a crime! It was a crime in the 1960s; it's still a crime today.
Monday, September 23, 2013
GRUMPY GRAMMY!
Few things in life have the power to take away my generally happy disposition. Cold coffee, ear-splitting sound at the movies, and of course, being constipated for three days can cause me to frown or scream until the situation has been rectified. I yell my fool head off when I'm constipated!
But the one thing that can make me downright GRUMPY is poor execution of a pro football team when that pro football team is none other than the Pittsburgh Steelers. Their record for this season is 0-3. If you consider the exhibition games, it's 0-7. Since August my blood pressure is through the roof!
And when I get GRUMPY, it's time to start pointing fingers. Pointing fingers seems to calm me down somewhat so here goes. When a reporter asked Coach Tomlin what needs to be done to turn their season around, his prophetic comment was, "Nothing!" NOTHING, that's right, this wizard of the game said NOTHING! ALL THEY NEED TO DO IS EXECUTE! DAH! And DOUBLE DAH! I'm sure you know what finger I'm using to point in Tomlin's direction these days.
Now, let's throw some blame on the offensive coordinator, Todd Haley. He's a blunt sort of a guy so I feel I can be blunt as well. His game plan stinks! RUN, RUN, PASS. And when that doesn't work, then RUN, RUN, PASS again and again and again! I'm pointing the same finger at Haley that I use on Tomlin.
Big Ben deserves some finger pointing, too. He does have a huge heart and is truly involved in keeping his team together. For that reason Ben is spared the above-mentioned finger. But his slow starts and less than accurate executions along with two fumbles of late is aggravating to say the least.
I know his line is horrible, but he has to find a way to get the ball to Miller, Brown, and Sanders. He's done it before with a horrible line; he must do it again!
Oh no, LeBeau, if you thought you were off the hook, think again. I don't know who's ranking defensive lines these days, but the Steelers' defense is pitiful. Not being able to hold the other team's receivers and running backs for a few yards in order to avert another touchdown is ridiculous. Sorry, Dick, I'm pointing my finger at you as well. You need to reassess and revise an all-too-obvious defensive plan. Maybe it's also time for you to reassess and revise your own career plan before you go down as so many have as not knowing when to say when is enough.
Wait, I feel something happening. My dark mood is beginning to clear. I'm slowly beginning to return to my happy, sweet self. I think my finger pointing just might have had something to do with lowering my blood pressure and raising my spirits. Ah, that feels better!
But the one thing that can make me downright GRUMPY is poor execution of a pro football team when that pro football team is none other than the Pittsburgh Steelers. Their record for this season is 0-3. If you consider the exhibition games, it's 0-7. Since August my blood pressure is through the roof!
And when I get GRUMPY, it's time to start pointing fingers. Pointing fingers seems to calm me down somewhat so here goes. When a reporter asked Coach Tomlin what needs to be done to turn their season around, his prophetic comment was, "Nothing!" NOTHING, that's right, this wizard of the game said NOTHING! ALL THEY NEED TO DO IS EXECUTE! DAH! And DOUBLE DAH! I'm sure you know what finger I'm using to point in Tomlin's direction these days.
Now, let's throw some blame on the offensive coordinator, Todd Haley. He's a blunt sort of a guy so I feel I can be blunt as well. His game plan stinks! RUN, RUN, PASS. And when that doesn't work, then RUN, RUN, PASS again and again and again! I'm pointing the same finger at Haley that I use on Tomlin.
Big Ben deserves some finger pointing, too. He does have a huge heart and is truly involved in keeping his team together. For that reason Ben is spared the above-mentioned finger. But his slow starts and less than accurate executions along with two fumbles of late is aggravating to say the least.
I know his line is horrible, but he has to find a way to get the ball to Miller, Brown, and Sanders. He's done it before with a horrible line; he must do it again!
Oh no, LeBeau, if you thought you were off the hook, think again. I don't know who's ranking defensive lines these days, but the Steelers' defense is pitiful. Not being able to hold the other team's receivers and running backs for a few yards in order to avert another touchdown is ridiculous. Sorry, Dick, I'm pointing my finger at you as well. You need to reassess and revise an all-too-obvious defensive plan. Maybe it's also time for you to reassess and revise your own career plan before you go down as so many have as not knowing when to say when is enough.
Wait, I feel something happening. My dark mood is beginning to clear. I'm slowly beginning to return to my happy, sweet self. I think my finger pointing just might have had something to do with lowering my blood pressure and raising my spirits. Ah, that feels better!
Monday, September 16, 2013
"Superhuman" Seniors?
Okay, so maybe we're not "superhuman" in the true sense of the word. But we're pretty damn close. We've been engaged in a major renovation project in our front yard for about two weeks now. We had a company come in, tear down the existing wall, erect a new one, and reconfigure the entire ground area. Once completed, my hubby and I took over.
While hubby is 77, I'm a mere 69 years old. No walkers, oxygen, or rocking chairs for us! No way, no how! First we dug seven holes 2'x2'x2' in hard rock and clay for the seven mature plants needed to be hauled from the back via wheelbarrow. And let me tell you, those suckers were heavy!
After finishing the transplants, we dug 15 more holes in the same unforgiving medium to accommodate the new shrubs and perennials. All of the holes and planting were done on a slope; keeping our footing while shoveling and bending was similar to doing aerobics while perched on a Mt. Everest shelf. Are you amazed yet? If not, you will be after I'm finished with this daunting tale.
To add to the esthetics of our new project we created an island in the grassy area of the yard. We piled three feet of top soil to construct a mound, tamped it down, piled again, tamped again, piled, tamped until the desired size and shape were achieved. Next we had a tree planted in the center by the landscapers only because if they do it and the tree dies, they'll replace it free of charge. We completed work on the island by planting 14 liriope, and a "little lime" hydrangea bush, putting down weed protection material, and finally topping the whole shebang off with 8 bags of mulch.
You say we should be exhausted, well you haven't heard the best part yet! The landscaping company delivered 10,000 lbs. of stone, yes I said 10,000 lbs, dropping it at the corner of the newly-erected wall. Now hubby and I really had to go to work. We were using stone as mulch to cover the extensive area between the plantings. We filled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow with tons of solid rock, moved wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow to designated spots, dumped the stone, returned to the seemingly ever growing mountain of stone, and begun the process all over again. We also hauled 10 bags of lava rock that we used to effect "trickles" intermingled with the mocha stone. When we finally finished, we looked on with pride at the beauty our "superhuman" efforts had created.
I relate this story to all of you youngsters out there for one reason. Seniors are perhaps the most unsung heroes in our society today. But I implore you to remember that we were born before and during World War II. For the most part, our parents were hard-working people who made little money yet managed to feed, clothe, and house their families. They didn't expect government to do that for them. They would have been extremely humiliated if they had to live off handouts from the state.
More importantly, our parents instilled in us a strong work ethic. If something needed to be done, we did it and completed the task no matter the toll it took on body and soul. We were and still are proud of our accomplishments.
In conclusion, I hope my tale has given you a newfound respect for the seniors in your lives. Believe it or not, you can learn a lot from them. They can help you develop the work ethic you will need to succeed in every aspect of your existence. And if you play your cards right, they might even offer a helping hand in major projects around your homes as well!
While hubby is 77, I'm a mere 69 years old. No walkers, oxygen, or rocking chairs for us! No way, no how! First we dug seven holes 2'x2'x2' in hard rock and clay for the seven mature plants needed to be hauled from the back via wheelbarrow. And let me tell you, those suckers were heavy!
After finishing the transplants, we dug 15 more holes in the same unforgiving medium to accommodate the new shrubs and perennials. All of the holes and planting were done on a slope; keeping our footing while shoveling and bending was similar to doing aerobics while perched on a Mt. Everest shelf. Are you amazed yet? If not, you will be after I'm finished with this daunting tale.
To add to the esthetics of our new project we created an island in the grassy area of the yard. We piled three feet of top soil to construct a mound, tamped it down, piled again, tamped again, piled, tamped until the desired size and shape were achieved. Next we had a tree planted in the center by the landscapers only because if they do it and the tree dies, they'll replace it free of charge. We completed work on the island by planting 14 liriope, and a "little lime" hydrangea bush, putting down weed protection material, and finally topping the whole shebang off with 8 bags of mulch.
You say we should be exhausted, well you haven't heard the best part yet! The landscaping company delivered 10,000 lbs. of stone, yes I said 10,000 lbs, dropping it at the corner of the newly-erected wall. Now hubby and I really had to go to work. We were using stone as mulch to cover the extensive area between the plantings. We filled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow with tons of solid rock, moved wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow to designated spots, dumped the stone, returned to the seemingly ever growing mountain of stone, and begun the process all over again. We also hauled 10 bags of lava rock that we used to effect "trickles" intermingled with the mocha stone. When we finally finished, we looked on with pride at the beauty our "superhuman" efforts had created.
I relate this story to all of you youngsters out there for one reason. Seniors are perhaps the most unsung heroes in our society today. But I implore you to remember that we were born before and during World War II. For the most part, our parents were hard-working people who made little money yet managed to feed, clothe, and house their families. They didn't expect government to do that for them. They would have been extremely humiliated if they had to live off handouts from the state.
More importantly, our parents instilled in us a strong work ethic. If something needed to be done, we did it and completed the task no matter the toll it took on body and soul. We were and still are proud of our accomplishments.
In conclusion, I hope my tale has given you a newfound respect for the seniors in your lives. Believe it or not, you can learn a lot from them. They can help you develop the work ethic you will need to succeed in every aspect of your existence. And if you play your cards right, they might even offer a helping hand in major projects around your homes as well!
Monday, September 9, 2013
Against All Odds
What are the odds of a newborn surviving, who in 1944 was birthed at home, turned blue and stopped breathing less than 15 minutes after entering this world? Would you say a million-to-one? Maybe a trillion-to-one? Whatever the true figure is, after 69 years today I am still alive and kicking. Happy birthday to me!
On Saturday, September 9, 1944 my mother went upstairs to clean up before dinner. My baba was making steak and potatoes which happened to be mom's favorite meal. Unfortunately she would never get to enjoy that savory dish.
Her water broke and I was coming fast. My dad ran to the neighbors who just happened to be doctors. Lady Dr. Stimetz, I never knew her first name, answered the call. I'm told she delivered me at around 6:30p.m.
Once the cord was cut, the good doctor handed me to my baba and directed her to wash away all the afterbirth from my body. Baba dutifully took me downstairs, filled her favorite mixing bowl with warm water and began the cleansing process.
Baba noticed that I sounded somewhat congested. She went to the pantry and secured a jar of vaporizer. She then rubbed an ample amount into and under my nostrils. I immediately turned blue and stopped breathing. Frantically she screamed for help. Dr. Stimetz was still attending to my mom, but upon hearing the urgency in baba's voice she ran to assist. She wiped the gunk from my nose and administered CPR. Within a minute or two my color returned to a healthy pink and my breathing became normal. Against all odds, Dr. Stimetz, the heroine, saved my 15 minute old life!
Ever since that day I've been a survivor. I'm also a risk-taker. I guess you might even call me a gambler. I personally think these traits are blessings that have served me well throughout my life. If it hadn't been for my baba's well-intentioned mistake, I might have never become the person I am today. Actually, I might not have become the person I am today BECAUSE of her well-intentioned mistake. And as far as Lady Dr. Stimetz, well without her intervention, I know I would NOT HAVE BECOME AT ALL!
Against all odds, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
On Saturday, September 9, 1944 my mother went upstairs to clean up before dinner. My baba was making steak and potatoes which happened to be mom's favorite meal. Unfortunately she would never get to enjoy that savory dish.
Her water broke and I was coming fast. My dad ran to the neighbors who just happened to be doctors. Lady Dr. Stimetz, I never knew her first name, answered the call. I'm told she delivered me at around 6:30p.m.
Once the cord was cut, the good doctor handed me to my baba and directed her to wash away all the afterbirth from my body. Baba dutifully took me downstairs, filled her favorite mixing bowl with warm water and began the cleansing process.
Baba noticed that I sounded somewhat congested. She went to the pantry and secured a jar of vaporizer. She then rubbed an ample amount into and under my nostrils. I immediately turned blue and stopped breathing. Frantically she screamed for help. Dr. Stimetz was still attending to my mom, but upon hearing the urgency in baba's voice she ran to assist. She wiped the gunk from my nose and administered CPR. Within a minute or two my color returned to a healthy pink and my breathing became normal. Against all odds, Dr. Stimetz, the heroine, saved my 15 minute old life!
Ever since that day I've been a survivor. I'm also a risk-taker. I guess you might even call me a gambler. I personally think these traits are blessings that have served me well throughout my life. If it hadn't been for my baba's well-intentioned mistake, I might have never become the person I am today. Actually, I might not have become the person I am today BECAUSE of her well-intentioned mistake. And as far as Lady Dr. Stimetz, well without her intervention, I know I would NOT HAVE BECOME AT ALL!
Against all odds, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
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