So when Elvis died, I was pregnant with my son. I had been having a lot of morning sickness and spent most of the time in the bathroom. I had also just been transferred into the labor and delivery unit at our hospital and was happy but that day, we had no women in labor and rather than paying us to sit around and do nothing, we were pulled out on other floors to help the other nurses. I liked being pulled out because I was never assigned my own patients; rather, I just helped. The nurses on the floor appreciated our help and it gave me more time to get to know the patients that I helped with. That day, I was helping with a man who had two broken legs and a broken back. I think he was in a car accident. I was telling him that if he must smoke, he had to drink two four ounce cups of juice to replace the vit c that the nicotine destroyed and for some reason, I looked at the TV and they said it, the king is dead. Not one time did I think the King meant some king of some country. I remember almost falling to my knees and getting this awful taste in my mouth before I turned and threw up in the trash can behind me. The guy said, are you okay. I said, I’m sorry, I’m pregnant. I then heard the nurses in the hall running to an empty room to hear the news and some were crying and others were saying oh no. How ironic that I was pregnant with my son when the king of rock and roll died and he, my son, called me to tell me the king of pop had just died.