On March 9, 1945, at Midwood Hospital in Brooklyn the Nurse brought me into my mother’s room so we could meet face to face for the very first time. Heavy sedation during childbirth was the norm back then, so she was pretty much in “ La La Land” when I emerged from the warmth of her body into the cold, glaring lights of the delivery room. She had delivered her boy two years earlier, so the arrival of a female this time around was greeted with jubilation. The joy passed quickly. The nurse placed me in my mother’s waiting arms. One look at me and instantaneously my Mom screamed, “this isn’t my baby, this can’t be my baby! “ Thinking she had committed a grievous mistake, the Nurse immediately grabbed me back from my mother’s arms. Examining the name bracelets, she was relieved to see the mistake was not hers. The way my mother tried to explain it to me years later is that my face was flaming red and discolored, crunched up and distorted in a hideous cry. You’re heard of “ a face only a mother could love ❤️ “. Well this was a case of a face even a mother couldn’t love! What a way to begin my life outside the womb. My mother assured me she thought I looked a lot better the next time she saw me.
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