About Me

Once upon a time, a baby was born in the United States, a US citizen. But his parents were from another country and they returned to that country when he was very young. He was raised in the old country until he was a strappy, strong, 18-year-old with a full head of very reddish blonde hair.

Around that time, war was breaking out across the world. The young man’s mother decided it was time for him to go to the country where he was born…the United States. She told him that if he was going to be required to fight in a war, then he should do it for the new country. He hugged his parents tightly, knowing that in all likelihood, he would never see them again.

And he never did.

He got off the boat at Ellis Island, like countless others, and made his way to Chicago, where so many from his village in the old country were already settled. He became a boarder and started working. But he missed his family desperately.

One day, while feeling particularly lonely, he went behind the garage, in the alley, and sat down and began to cry. A neighbor girl saw him, came over and sat down beside him. She was 14 years old. She consoled him and convinced him that things would get better.

Five years later, he married her. And together they had 7 children: the oldest a girl, beautiful and tall and elegant, and then 5 boys, each one of them strong and smart and rugged, with easy laughs and a strong sense of identity. Finally, they had another girl, a welcomed baby, the youngest one. And the boys all called her Pinky.

Pinky was small, but powerful. Whip-smart and sensitive, loving and light-hearted. She had a lot of protectors. She married a handsome and gallant young man from the neighborhood, and honeymooned at Niagra Falls. They celebrated their time together because the young man was sent into the army 2 weeks after their marriage.

Pinky lived in the sunshine-y bright, cheerful lower apartment of her parents’ home while her brand new husband was overseas. She worked and went out with friends. When her husband returned, she immediately got pregnant. She carried the baby girl the full 9 months, and then the baby was stillborn, suffocating in the womb. The young couple found themselves at the grave of a tiny baby, born without ever taking a breath.

Within a year, Pinky was pregnant again. She carried the baby girl the full 9 months, and once again the baby died just before being born. The couple was devastated as they now had two small gravesites next to one another at the family cemetery. They didn’t know if they could go on. Their grief was a form of despair because they didn’t have answers.

It was another 2 years later, when Pinky was told she was pregnant again. The OB behind the desk looked at the young couple and asked why they were not excited. Pinky cried and cried and said she did not think she could go through it again.

The doctor was not really a doctor. Yet. He was a resident, in his final year of residency. A very young, smart and determined resident. He told her:

“You have diabetes. But now we know. We can control it, you can control it, and you can have this baby. In fact, I’m going to make you my final project before I become a doctor. And I’m going to follow your case every step of the way, and turn it into my final presentation. And when we’re done, you are going to have a healthy baby.

And I am going to be a doctor.”

So the young couple found their courage, and followed his advice. They monitored Pinky’s blood sugar, and her young husband gave her insulin shots and learned to help her test her blood sugar. They spent weeks in the hospital at the end of her pregnancy.

But after 9 months, Pinky delivered her first baby, very much alive and well.

They named the baby Carol–a song of joy.

The End. (And also The Beginning).