About twenty-four years ago, a two pound three ounce baby girl entered the world three months earlier than hoped for in a Texas hospital. You've heard they grow things bigger in Texas? Sadly, the only Texan in the tribe was the runt of the litter.
Four surgeries before the age of eighteen months, one of them (a heart valve procedure) when she was less than a week old. One hundred and two days in the neonatal intensive care unit of the hospital. Medical bills were pretty impressive. Insurance was good but we still wound up with a fair amount of out of pocket expenses.
There were a few times it was a little touch and go, but she was a fighter.
My mother bought her Cabbage Patch doll clothes, which were initially too big. We had to wake her up every few hours to feed her. She couldn't eat much at a time, and calories were very important. A cleft palate complicated the feeding process. Her vocal chords were paralyzed, probably from the tubes down her throat. You could tell she was crying when you looked at her, but you couldn't hear her.
We had her paid off by her sixth birthday, the year she started first grade.
She turned twenty-four this week. She's a beautiful young woman with a mischievous sense of humor, and she's engaged to be married in June. She has a large circle of friends, a job, an associate's degree, and a spectacular collection of hats. For some reason, she's always loved hats. She's a gifted musician and writer and an amazing artist. The voice has never been loud but she can carry a tune quite well if she can get a microphone for amplification. She's extraordinarily strong and is thinking about going into massage therapy.
I'm pleasantly surprised we've made it this far.
Happy birthday, Basement Artist. I'm very proud of the young woman you're becoming.
Hope all's well out there, friends, and God bless.
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