I was born at 8PM on September 6. 1975. My mother had endured nearly eight hours of labor before the doctors had discovered that I was a breach birth, that my umbilical cord was strangling me and that I was choking on my own feces.
The irony is not lost on me considering that I’ve always been fairly cautious, so leaving the womb feet first makes sense. Almost dying would become a regular theme during my childhood and I supposed I’ve always been a “shit-talker.” So all in all it was a appropriate way to start life.
Mom really hung in like a trooper, but by the point where it was time to perform a C-Section, she had already requested that the doctors remove a limb or even her head to extract me. Being a traditionalist, she also called Dad all sorts of unsavory names and blamed him for her current predicament.
Despite the fact that my situation would normally suffocate a child and lead to brain damage I came out just fine at about nine pounds and change. I didn’t cry a bit another trait that would follow me through life, along with an unprovoked swat on my ass from the from the doctor under the dubious claim of making sure my lungs worked.
I spent three days in the infirmary before the first round of drugs wore off on mom at which time she demanded to see me. The nurse brought me to her and mom count my fingers, toes and checked out the rabbi’s work on my penis.
Looking down at me she whispered, “He’s got a big head.” and promptly passed out into morphine-induced bliss.