It begins with rejection. This is the story of the day I was born. My mother was about to give birth to me on the front porch of her sister’s house in Astoria, Queens, N.Y. When along comes the paperboy tossing papers from the open window of his old jalopy. Mom waves him down and gets a lift to the Brooklyn Naval Hospital where I was born on Sept. 18, 1946.
Here’s the rejection part. By two in the morning the only doctor available to deliver babies came to the conclusion that “this baby will not be born until the morning”. And so he left the hospital and headed home for a good night’s sleep. However, he was wrong. I decided differently! Therefore, realizing that my birth was imminent, the nurse called him to come back. My mother had the Rh blood factor that sometimes requires an immediate blood transfusion to the new born baby. Thus, the doctor said, “Don’t let her give birth until I get back there”. Two strong nurses held my mother’s legs closed so I couldn’t get out. Ouch. I was born with a rejection complex and a guilt complex – for the pain I caused my mother! Also, I tend not to listen to the predictions of god-like men.
How about the day you were born. Do you know your story?
This is a picture of my only living aunt on my mother’s side, her youngest sister, Dorothy. This is the grandchild she always wanted; but now she has Alzheimers and doesn’t know that it’s hers.
I did not have any saved pictures of the day of my birth on my iPad!