Chapter 1: Ready, Mom? Here I Come

On February 9, 1971, it was cold with light snow falling, but I had to come out. It was too dark and dingy in there, so I pushed on one wall; I pushed my feet on another wall until the dam broke, and I came down this chute, and there I was, out.

And boy, did I cry! Because my legs and arms hurt from pushing like that. Anyway, I didn’t care. I was out of there.

According to the doctor, I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have pushed on my mom’s walls and come out so soon. The doctor said I only weighed 2 pounds 14 ounces, and I had severely underdeveloped lungs.

He said, “If I made it past my first 24 hours, it would be a miracle.”

What? I was supposed to stay in there longer. And I know I’m a little skinny, but come on, Doc, 2 pounds, 14 ounces? What are you talking about? What is this glass thing and all these tubes sticking out of me for? How long do I have to stay like this?

The joke was on me because I didn’t know you’re supposed to weigh five pounds or more before you come out of your mom’s stomach. So there I sat in an incubator for four weeks while people fed me two ounces of formula every two hours, because my stomach was so small.

I was released from the WCA Hospital in Jamestown, New York, to Gary Edward Singer and Barbara Ann Singer on March 9, 1971. My parents had strict instructions that I was to continue the two ounces of formula every two hours. I was not allowed to go anywhere but home and to the doctor’s office for the next six months because my immune system wasn’t fully developed, and if I got sick, I could die.