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To write even a part of an autobiography one needs to learn a few things of that person, and what makes them do what they do, thus becoming who they are. These important facts better informs the reader of situations and therefore they can better relate to the author.

The year was 1955, in the sweltering heat of summer, two weeks after my mother's due date that I chose to enter this world. I weighted 4lbs 6oz.

It was clear immediately that something was wrong. I was under weight, bluish and sickly. It was discovered that my heart was not pumping properly. With numerous tests it was realized that I had four different holes in the chambers of the heart, holes that prevented blood from going through, holes that could not be fixed. I was not expected to live a day, or a week, or a month.

My mother refused to believe this. Looking back today, I think it was her will that I live. It was her faith in something higher than all of humanity. There is no other explanation.
And live I did, through much sacrifice and determination on my mother's part I continued to live and breathe. Doctor's explained to her that it was hopeless and when she did bring me home it was going to take a great deal of effort to keep me alive, (they assumed that I would die very shortly). I had to stay warm at all times, I had rest and sleep often and that everything that went into my mouth must be sterilized. She must wash her hands every time she picked me up or held me. If I had gotten so much as a cold, it would kill me. Even with all of this effort, it was unlikely that I would live very long.

My mother did every thing humanly possible to make sure that she followed the doctor's advice. We lived, at the time in an old white farmhouse with an oil furnace in the living room. The house was as she described it, small, drafty and cool. My mother put me a basket and set me on the oven door with the heat turned to 250 degrees. I was wrapped in two blankets and would sleep for hours and hours with the heat from the oven warming me. She sterilized everything that had anything to do with me. She washed her hands ten, twenty times a day. She kept my two small brothers away from me for fear that they would transmit germs. I was the focus of her life for weeks and then for months, and than as it was known, for years.

Doctor's sat in awe each time they saw me. More tests and always the same diagnosis, I could not possibly or medically live very long. The blood was not running through the heart properly, it

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