“Luck is believing you’re lucky.”

—Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

Today’s story is from Blake Glovitz

Nov 4, 1983. 5:32 p.m. Baby in distress. The hospital PA, “Respiratory therapist, stat.” Newborn in trouble. Mom rushed to surgery. Emergency C-section. Premature birth. Lungs limp. Not a breath.

My dad Bob and me, the newborn son, Blake, 1983

They “bagged” my head. APGAR score “1” – the lowest there is…unless you are dead. I was rushed to neo-natal intensive care at Dallas Methodist Hospital. Dad followed by car, afraid and alone, worried about his newborn son.

When I arrived the doctor didn’t mince words, “Mr. Glovitz, your newborn is the sickest one here.” Three pound newbies. Heart surgery. Brain injured kids. I was the worst…least likely to live.

Dad prayed time after time for me his newborn son, “Blake, please cry. Breathe on your own.” The next day, things were bad. I still struggled to live. Dad walked out to the lot. He hadn’t been home. He needed fresh air.

The lucky buck

He noticed a worn, torn one dollar bill lying alone, scrunched on the ground. Lucky, Dad thought. Hope for my son?

Dad picked up that buck, walked inside, asked for a pen and wrote “Blake Campbell’s Lucky Buck. Found 11/05/83.” Excellent care. Mom and Dad’s love. The luck of that buck. I lived.

Mom’s childhood teddy bear bank was placed next to my crib. To continue my luck, Dad inserted that buck. A few years passed. I was perhaps 5. That’s when I learned of my fight for survival, how bleak things looked, the doctors and nurses who helped me pull through. And, my lucky buck.

“Blake,” said Dad,“on days that seem bad, realize they’re not. All days are good when you’re lucky to live.”

I’ve had some rough times…a few days especially tough.

My real luck from that buck?
My remarkable dad.

Thanks Dad. And, happy 65th.

My bro, Adam. Me, Blake. Bob, my remarkable dad.