57 Coincidences

Me sporting my Heinz 57 T-shirt. Fun fact: the Heinz merch store doesn’t ship to Canada. Obtaining this took some doing.

Certain birthdays of mine have felt numerically significant, like 20, 21, 30, 33⅓, 40, 42, and 50. Today’s another one of those! I turn 57 today, and in honor of the occasion I’d like to tell you a story.

This story is true—or, at least, as close to true as I can make it, given the resources available to me. My mother told me much of this tale, with some bits filled in from other places. I’ve cited sources where I have them, but some matters are, as you’ll see, impossible to document. I want to tell you about a wacky and fascinating web of coincidences related to my birth on this day in 1967.

We begin in August 1966, just over four months before I was born, in McKeesport, Pennsylvania—12 miles (18 km) up the Monongahela River from Pittsburgh. My paternal grandfather (also named Joseph Kissell, like my father and me) had a heart attack. It wasn’t his first. That had been back when he was 49. Now he was 66, and this was his third. It was instantly obvious what was happening, and how serious it was. My grandmother called for an ambulance. She also called my mom, Grace Kissell, who was a nurse and who lived just a few blocks away.¹ Soon my grandfather was being strapped onto a stretcher.

In those days, ambulances weren’t fancy vans with high-tech life-support equipment and operated by trained paramedics. They were basically glorified station wagons, driven by police officers whose only role was to get someone to a hospital in a hurry. So, my mom and my grandmother hopped in the back with my grandfather, the two police officers got in the front, and the ambulance sped away toward McKeesport Hospital, a seven-minute drive.

A map showing my parents’ house, my grandparents’ house, and the hospital.

When they turned a corner at the end of Summit Street, the stretcher broke loose. My petite grandmother, along with my five-months-pregnant mother, struggled to hold it in place. The police officers asked if they should stop, but both women said no; we have to get to the hospital as soon as possible.

It was at that moment that my mom noticed I had stopped kicking. It was noteworthy because I’d been consistently active for quite some time, and she was accustomed to a near-constant sensation of movement. Now she wasn’t just worried about her father-in-law; she was worried about me, too.

This was on a Monday. My grandfather remained in the hospital, in critical condition, until Sunday, August 28, when he died. Only then did my mom feel me begin kicking again. My grandfather was buried near his parents, Martin and Margaret Kissell, in Belle Vernon Cemetery.

My grandfather’s obituary from The Valley Independent, Monday, August 29, 1966.

Four more months passed, including Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, and my father’s 45th birthday on January 8. On Monday, January 9, my father came home from his job as an elementary school principal to find that my mom was in labor. Based on her family history as well as her medical experience, she expected that labor would take quite some time. So, that evening, when he was expected to attend a PTA meeting at school, my mom assured him that she’d be fine without him, and off he went.

Pretty soon, however, things started to speed up. My mom called the school and told them to send my father home right away because the baby wasn’t going to wait. As soon as he got home, they zipped off toward the same hospital where my grandfather had died a few months back.

My father tried to take a shortcut through an alley, only to find it blocked by a car whose driver had stopped for a leisurely chat with some friends. This infuriated him, so he got out of the car and yelled “Maternity!”² The driver of the other car got in and skedaddled. My father drove the rest of the way to the hospital, dropped my mom off at the door, and went to find a parking space. By the time he got back, I had already been born—just like that.

My mom, Grace E. Kissell, holding me shortly after I was born.

I was fine. My mother was fine. But this was 1967, and unlike today when a woman might be discharged within a day after even a fairly complicated delivery, it was normal for someone who had just given birth to stay in the hospital for a week or so. So, my mom sat in her hospital room and nurses brought me in for visits.

The obstetrician also stopped in. And he mentioned a funny coincidence: there was another patient of his, also named Grace Kissell, on the same floor of the same hospital, who also gave birth to a baby boy on the same day. My mom even had flowers delivered to her room that were intended for the other Grace Kissell.

Nothing but the best for the modern child. This is the recipe my pediatrician gave my mother for homemade formula when I was five days old: evaporated milk, water, and Karo corn syrup. Yes, really.

As my mom was telling me this story, she was unable to explain why, during the six days she was in the hospital, neither she nor the other Grace thought to walk down the hall to introduce herself to the other. My mom had never heard of the other Grace Kissell before that, and never ran into her (or her son, whose name I don’t know) afterward, either.

I wanted to figure out who this other Grace Kissell was, so I started probing for more details. I asked my mom, “Do you happen to remember the obstetrician’s name?”

She said, “Oh yes, the same doctor delivered both you and your sister. I remember him well. His name was Dr. Dill.”

My Heinz pickle pin.

She then went on to tell me a story about Dr. Dill. She said that he had been a bachelor, both when I was born and four years later when my sister was born. But later in life he met a woman, fell in love, and got married. My mother said that the woman he married was a member of a wealthy family that owned a major company based in Pittsburgh that sold food products worldwide. This company used a dill pickle as one of their logos (until 2009) and their slogan is “57 varieties.” That’s right: Dr. Dill married into the Heinz family.³ (Note: foreshadowing.)

My mom also mentioned that after I was born, the first card she received was from a physician she knew at the hospital where she had been working. The physician’s name was Dr. Kissell, and he had a daughter with the first name Grace.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What? A Dr. Kissell? Yet another Grace Kissell?”

“You mean I never told you that story?” she said.

“Uh, no.”

Well, it gets even better. My mom said that when she was pregnant with me, she was working at Columbia Hospital,⁴ which, coincidentally, was the hospital where she was born.⁵ One day—this was some time before my grandfather died—a patient on her floor went into cardiac arrest. So she immediately phoned for assistance. The person who answered the phone said that the attending physician on duty was a Dr. Dewitt Kissell—no relation. My mom said, “Well, this is Grace Kissell, and tell him to get right down here, because we have a patient crashing.”

Moments later, Dr. Kissell arrived, approached my mom, and said, “What did you say your name was?” She said, “Grace Kissell.” He said, “You can’t be serious.” She said, “Of course I am,” all the while thinking they shouldn’t be having this conversation now with a patient dying in the next room. He said, “I have a daughter named Grace,” and went to help the patient.

Dr. Kissell performed CPR, and my mom said she remembered hearing the patient’s ribs crack. Unfortunately, the patient didn’t make it.

Congratulatory card sent to my mom by Dr. and Mrs. Dewitt Kissell.

But Dr. Kissell and my mom kept in touch, and the congratulatory card he sent to her after I was born was signed Dr. and Mrs. Kissell “Grandpa & Grandma.”

Needless to say, I wondered whether that Grace Kissell,⁶ Dr. Dewitt Kissell’s daughter, might have been the other Grace who gave birth on the same day as my mom at McKeesport Hospital. My mom didn’t think she could have been, and surely if she had been, Dr. Kissell would have mentioned that to her. From what I can piece together, that Grace would have been just a few years younger than my mom (so, appropriate age and location), but I’ve found no evidence that she had any children, let alone a boy born the same day as me.

Thus, it does appear that there were three different Grace Kissells of similar age in the vicinity of Pittsburgh in 1967, all connected in some way yet unknown to the others. Which is pretty freaky considering how rare the name Kissell is in the first place (I’ve never even met another Kissell who was not a close relative) and how much rarer still the name Grace Kissell is. I would love to know who the Grace Kissell was who was the other obstetric patient when I was born and what her son’s name was. I don’t know how to obtain that information, but when I’m back in western Pennsylvania this summer for my 40-year high school reunion, I may poke around at libraries and archives to see what I can turn up. If I learn anything interesting, I’ll post an update here.

Before we wrap up, though, it’s time for the bonus round!

Growing up, I was always a Heinz fan, and I put Heinz ketchup on everything. (I have a whole collection of ketchup stories, but let’s leave those for another time.) So, naturally, I was tickled to hear that there was a connection, however obscure and tenuous, between my birth and Heinz. That, as they say, is on-brand for me. Which reminds me…

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, a delightful comedy series, is set on the other side of Pennsylvania from where I grew up. I mean, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia might as well be in different countries, considering how culturally dissimilar they are. But it’s a fine show, and it’s where I first heard of Rob McElhenny, who grew up in Philadelphia. I’ve also long been a huge fan of Ryan Reynolds, who has been in countless excellent movies and TV shows. Rob and Ryan purchased a Welsh football team, Wrexham AFC, as chronicled in their documentary Welcome to Wrexham. I was never a sports fan, but after watching Welcome to Wrexham, I’m definitely a Wrexham fan.

And what does all that have to do with anything?

Oliver Crescent street sign in Saskatoon.

Well, the theme music for “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” was composed by one Heinz (no relation) Kiessling (no relation). And according to a newspaper clipping Ryan posted on Instagram, he grew up in Vancouver on a street called Oliver Crescent.⁷ That’s presumably why he named his company Oliver Crescent Productions. Well…Oliver Crescent is also the name of the street where I currently live in Saskatoon. (I also, just for the record, always keep a bottle of Aviation American Gin on hand; Ryan Reynolds is a co-owner and spokesperson, and the brand was a Wrexham sponsor for a couple of years.)

I’m not inclined to assign any cosmic meaning to coincidences. But I think we can safely conclude from the foregoing that I’ll be putting Heinz ketchup on the mac & cheese I eat for supper tonight and washing it down with Aviation gin…after saying Grace, of course. I mean, that’s just science.

Me looking at my grandfather’s picture, on the first anniversary of his death.