Will He Survive

My Beginning

… they defended as I descended and my life was extended…

WHO WILL AND WILL NOT DIE: When did the “magic” of my story begin? When did my creative art find hope? In 1951, the chase for new life conceived and the pregnancy that carried my soul stood the test of harsh labor, limited care and then the past due date. On a cool and brisk October 20^th, while the vibrant rust-colored maple leaves were still in search of their resting place, mother went to the hospital for the delivery of her life. But all the wails of childbirth could not release me from the grip of stubborn fate. Mom, Evelyn M. Isaacson, had dwindled into the total exhaustion mode and I lay in the jaws of death. Butt first, I had descended and was completely stuck in the birth canal and too late to medicate. In those days, the doctor did gravely understand that emergency surgery might need to be planned. To help the cause he cut the opening to life from “stem to stern” but he learned that the delivery had thoroughly stalled. The nurses did plead for mom to press out the seed, but she lay in distress and could not continue the test. The moment of truth had come. Who would live and who would die was about to be written in the sky. Unwilling to yield to the determined arm of fate, Dr. DuVall’s mind went into full debate. First, he appealed for mom to push, but the dragon of inspiration was dead. He rose to challenge mother’s dignity and worth. He insisted that she was not a good mother and did not deserve the life that now lay at the door seeking a place beside her bosom. He declared her to be unfit and called her names awful to the taste and said she was just human waste.  The time to operate was passing by and he said what he would do if mother died. Then, he noticed a twitch of response amidst the surrender of exhausted defeat. Again, he twisted mother’s mind with the fiercest of terms and she was aroused to fight back the spurn*. Suddenly, she felt it. Anger arose like a mighty wave at sea. She squeaked out the words, “one more time for me.” In frenzy, the doctor yelled and screamed at the staff. He would not settle for the half. “All hands on deck” was the call. Even the angels stood by the stall.  Demands were issued as if no future existed beyond the “here and now.” The noise of determination enveloped the air with the call of destiny. As nurses pushed, the doctor pulled and mother’s last desperate attempt at resurrection ignited the fire of what I know as me. A few minutes later the unexpected surprise of a fraternal twin arrived safely into wide-open loving arms. Finally, the staff were rewarded with the discovery that mother turned around in recovery. She stayed awake long enough for the three of us to taste victory together and then rested in a deep sleep where dreams would reveal eternal hope. The hospital staff exercised their lungs in the melody and harmony of elevated gratitude and grace, while Dr. DuVall had won his race against the toughest of competitors, death itself. The other siblings were a $100 to be born but this bill was a $1500 affair. I will ever respect the doctor that refused to let poetic verse drift into the unknown without being heard. And every time I witness nature finding a way, I realize what it was like on that day.

*spurn---reject with anger and disgust, contempt