Who Knew

Eighteen years ago I lay in a crib of warm white cotton,

My tiny eyes dart through the room, soaking in my new unexplored world,

A hard yellow band wraps around my ankle encasing letters,

Letters that spell my name.  What is a name?

It’s an identity that people carry as they create stories throughout their lives.

My story started with imperfections within my football sized body,

A body as fragile as glass, but a mind and will stronger than Superman,

Two people watch my every movement like hawks,

Love radiates from their bright eyes as they smile down at me.

Their faces twist as I drift; the squeaking of wheels carries me away,

A door robotically opens as I inhale the sterile air of the vast starched white walls,

I’m wheeled into a room with blinding lights full of monsters…..

They dress in masks and blue cloth cover them from head to toe,

Then there is nothing but silent darkness.  Nothing.

Eighteen years later I walk with three scars embedded in my body,

I do not recall my first year of life in and out of hospitals like my parents do.

They have recounted the story to me with every little detail,

And they remember like it was yesterday.

Reflecting on this memory reminds me of my journey,

Six surgeries later I am as normal as the rest of you sitting in this room,

Except for my story.  Miracles come in all shapes and sizes.

Who knew that a tiny ball of peach fuzz could be so tough,

Who would’ve thought that my life rested in the hands of surgeons,

Who else can relate to my story?

No one.  Because I am as unique as a finger print.

Just like every person has their own unique story to share.

Don’t forget the little things because they are what make you, YOU.