I died before I was born.

I died before I was born.
My mother could have had a headache that night.
Were I conceived 30 years earlier, I would certainly not exist. I was born at 6 1/2 months, backwards, with the cord around my neck.
I died twice more in a sophisticated incubator.
My mother asked the nurse, “He won’t make it, will he?”
She replied, “Look at him: He’s kicking and making noise and fighting. He keeps pulling out the wires. He’s a fighter. See those other ones over there? They’ve accepted their fates. Your son, he’s going to be fine.”

She was right.

I should sent her flowers, if I ever could learn her name.

I’m still kicking and making noise and fighting. I’m still pulling out the wires.

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