On this day in 1989 a child was born. A small, premature little boy. The last child of his mother. A tiny thing, not much bigger than a Barbie doll.
“What would you like us to do, Mrs. Confere?” the neonatologist asked.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?” I responded.
“At 24 weeks gestation, and one-pound nine-ounces, your son has less than a ten perc…
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