There once was a little boy, not barely one year old, all cute and cuddly
that vomited over a meter far, up the walls because there was a muscle blocking the exit of his stomach into his intestine (Pyloric stenosis). My mother was of course quite upset but the GP had said little babies can often vomit somewhat.
In her typical fashion she ignored this outside advice and forced my dad to go to the hospital, which we did. There they operated my little baby belly and took care of the issue, after which someone in the hospital had said; if you’d been an hour later he might have died from dehydration.
The resulting scar grew with me as I aged.
is that how the story starts perhaps?
Or does it start somewhere before that, with how my parents met somewhere in 1965 or 66 I guess. My mother made a little sequence of it:
one year they met and fell in love
then a year later they got engaged
another year later my sister was born (not sure what happened to marrying)
then another year later there was me
the next year came my little sister
and a year later they got divorced,
maybe that is where it starts