I don’t remember when I first heard the events of my arrival, but there were clues. The little patches on my head from drawing blood and the long scar on my hernia, told the story of my earliest months. The fact that I was “a miracle” seemed to follow me around for a long time. Relatives adored on me and gave me gifts “just because.” Even my middle school teachers knew that I was a premature baby. Regardless of the fact that I was different from most kids, I knew I was lucky. I was born two months premature, 8 weeks or 60 days according to my parents. Strawweight champion at 1lbs., 11oz., my body was almost as delicate as a dollar bill. The story goes that doctors said "I will have no life whatsoever,” if I was lucky to get that far. The