Life is "deer," as you are about to see, or maybe it won't be quite so inspirational to you. It matters not. Either way, you will see how the odd twists of fate, or whatever you may call it, intertwine in an assortment of ways. For example, consider a hospital atmosphere in the pleasant days of spring. No one would enjoy being imprisoned in a hot infirmary, but sometimes there's no choice in the matter. It’s just the way destiny works.
My older brother was a prime example of a baby; an even seven pounds, fourteen ounces, healthy, cute, and loveable. The only problem with him was that my mom had always liked the name Nick, which is fine in itself, unless you marry a Flick. Now, we all know how funny Nick Flick sounds, so that kind of put a damper on the whole Nick business. My mom learned to settle on Kevin, and once again, he was that prime specimen.
That's beside the point, however, for this story is about me, Kate. Not to dwell on the whole name thing, but my mom never had trouble picking out a name for me, because Kate, in fact, means trouble. Now, you may say, "Oh, what a poor child. That brother of hers gets all the good names, and the little girl is automatically stuck with a troublesome name." But let me tell you, Kate was quite an appropriate name for me, for I was indeed trouble from the start.
"You must stay in bed," the doctors had ordered my mom, and of course, so as not to jeopardize her or my yet-to-be life, she followed their instructions. Meanwhile, my brother, Kevin, approaching the terrible two's, ran around with the supervision of hired help, and the eventual shipment to my Grannie's farm.
As birds started to chirp, flowers arose and bloomed, and trees began to bud, my mom was forced to move to the more stifling environment of the hospital. Again the doctors directed her with the usual, "Stay in bed!" command, and added the catastrophe of dreaded hospital food. The small, cubical of a room contained an uncomfortable bed, a lamp, a chair, and one window overlooking the deteriorated houses of downtown. Not the most ideal of living conditions, but at least it was something.
The check-ups and brief examinations by doctors, consisting of, "How are you doing?"
"OK."
"Good, anything out of the ordinary?" ended abruptly after about two months of hospital life. Health problems due to the pregnancy forced them to perform a cesarean section. Of course, the meager facilities of St. Mike's Hospital were unable to handle the predicament of a four-pound, seven-week premature baby. I was to be sent to the nearest hospital, about fort-five minutes away, with the proper resources.
Groggy, my mom woke up from the surgery hours later and asked the doctor, "How's my baby?"
"Well, actually she's still here because of some complications. She's surviving though, and should be leaving shortly."
As if the whole bedridden, surgery-induced pregnancy wasn't enough, now, I was at the wrong hospital and hanging on to life by a thread.
Confused, my mom inquired about the "complications."
"Well," the doctor said, "About two miles from here, the ambulance hit several deer, completely totaling the vehicle. The next ambulance is on its way."
The second time around seemed to go without too many incidences, and I made it safely to the properly facilitated hospital. Although it was touch and go for me more than a few times, I pulled through, exceeding doctors expectations and was able to the leave the hospital within twelve days.
Upon coming home, my brother, recently come home from my Grannie’s farm himself, assumed me to be a doll and proceeded to poke me in the eye.
That was the last of my troubled beginning, however, because after a while my monthly check-ups became yearly and in the end, no check-ups at all because of my rapid improvements and healthy system.
Although my recovery took a mere twelve days the lesson will last a lifetime. The odds of that one ambulance, my ambulance, hitting enough deer, passing at that very second of that very hour, to total it entirely must be astronomical. It just goes to show, anything and everything is possible at any time, whether it be good or bad.
(Messages are forwarded by The
Preservation Foundation.
So, when you write to an author,
please type his/her name
in the subject line of
the message.)