I try, to the best of my ability, to stand by my convictions even in the face of overwhelming opposition. Two ideas, in particular, dictate the manner in which I move through life: the solution to any obstacle can be found in a book, and its is imperative to resolve all conflict yourself as reliance on others is a recipe for disaster. These come right out of the Introvert’s Handbook and speaks to the overall disposition of my personality. More specifically, this is a direct result of my upbringing. I grew up with a firm understanding that I was exceptionally intelligent, handsome, and gregarious. This misconception was furthered by my ability to digest and regurgitate random knowledge, genetic coding that actually left me rather good looking, and the ability to speak clearly and forcefully in a room full of people despite the fact I find talking to others physically painful.

While this isn’t a story about me, I want to lay this foundation as we move forward as it will help you better understand my frame or reference later on. What this is, is a story about the best part of me. I have made countless foolish decision in my life, many of which I am less than proud of, but if I never accomplish anything else, I will die knowing I achieved greatness. Addison was born in August of 2014 in what will forever be etched in my brain as one of the most emotionally charged days of my life. It happens to also be the day I almost lost my wife and child. Before we get to that, I’d like to step back nine months and put forth the effort required to share this tale in its entirety:

I had barely slept the night before, which is nothing exciting as I am a notoriously bad sleeper. So, as was often my routine, I lay dozing on the couch as my wife set about preparing for her day. She had been fumbling around in the upstairs bathroom when she audibly exclaimed, “Oh shit!” It took only a fraction of a second to reach her side. Something had clicked in my brain and I knew before even looking at the white stick in her hand. None the less, verification was needed and I snatched the test from her, that my eyes could see for themselves. We stood there in the early morning hours with our arms around each other trembling with excitement and fear. We were going to have a baby.

Suddenly aware I was holding a wet pee-stick brought me out of my daze and, realizing we still had stuff to do that day, we set about our normal routines. Very few things changed in those first weeks; with the exception of losing my wife to the energy sapping monster that is the first trimester. For three months, she slept. She continued her normal routine, eating exceptionally clean and working out six days a week, but by the time she made it home from work each night it took all of her energy just to eat dinner before passing out on the couch promptly at 7pm. We settled into this new routine and the pregnancy progressed without incident.

As we neared 20 weeks, we began playing the guessing game. All the old wive’s tales pointed to one conclusion; we were having a boy, no if ands or buts about it. This was wonderful; her father wanted a grandson and I wanted a baseball player. My wife just wanted a healthy baby. But sperm carrying the male genetic material are either exceptionally slow or just plain stupid in my family and my little guys followed suit, adding yet another girl into a clan of amazons. As soon as I knew the baby would be a girl, I fell in love. Actually, I think I loved her before she was conceived – the proverbial twinkle in daddy’s eye, if you will.

Closing on the third trimester, we began to suspect that my wife came from prime breeding stock. Aside from the sleeping, which ended virtually overnight as we moved into trimester number two, the pregnancy had been complication free. We had one scare early on that ended up being nothing, but as far as we could tell, we were just freaking awesome at making offspring. With each appointment, we became more and more confident that we would have a complication free pregnancy. As it turns out, we prayed for the wrong things; we should have asked for a complication free delivery. We didn’t. It wasn’t.

~~~~~

I have an obsession with hobbies, crafts, and the acquisition of life skills. I am fortunate enough to have married a woman with the patience to look past my ever changing interests, but this is not without a bit of much deserved taunting. Whenever I profess a desire to take up a new hobby or learn a new skill, I am often met with the same response from my lovely bride, “did you buy a book?” Remember that first tenant concerning books having answers for everything? Yea I live and die by that motto and my wife occasionally likes to playfully torment my obsession. Mind you, this comes from a woman who firmly believes all of life’s stresses can be relieved by burning a thousand calories and squatting half her body weight at 4:30am.

So it should come as no surprise that, upon learning of the pregnancy, I went out and stocked up on a half dozen pregnancy and parenting books, digesting volumes of text to better understand what the hell we had gotten ourselves into. By the end of the first week, I was convinced I knew everything taking place inside my wife’s body; probably better than she did (again, my opinion of myself knows no boundaries). While she slept her first trimester, I spent the free time to study all the important things I thought I should know. By the time my bride awoke from her slumber, I was convinced that all preparations were made and I was suitably knowledgable enough to be a dad – and a damn good one at that (because I read how in an article on the Internet), thank you very much!

As it is often want to do, winter slowly melted away into spring and the early signs of summer were building right around the next corner. This time of year is always two-fold for me; on the one hand, after spending a relatively long and miserable winter locked inside, I am enthusiastic to get out of the rut. Alternately, 90% of my work load happens between April and November so I start seeing my wife less and less. This summer, I was less upset about this prospect than normal because a new development had occurred. As it turns out, the second trimester is often referred to as the calm before the storm. Having spent nearly six months in blissful ignorance, I was not prepared for the emotional roller-coaster that would become my wife’s pregnancy.

You could say that she was quick to anger at times, just as you could say the temperature of the sun is pretty unbearable. Both would be understatements of a lifetime. Now I love my wife and have learned to love her frank nature and forceful personality, but there were times I was truly scared she was going to kill someone. Probably me. Take for example a routine trip to the grocery store (something we’ve done weekly for a decade). As we walked in the door, we both realized they appeared to be busier than normal. Standing in the doorway, eight months along, my pregnant bride looked around the store, puffed out her chest and proclaimed “why the fuck are there so many people in here? this is bullshit!”

So, as my wife plotted the destruction of every mother fucker that had ever crossed her, I went to work and fell into my summer routine. As the months dragged on and the due date became more tangible, we started making plans. Actually, more specifically, we started talking about the need to make plans. The nursery was finished (mostly), we had nearly all the necessities to bring a newborn home, and even at the suggestion of one of my co-workers I made the rare decision to program the address of the hospital into my phone’s gps. Two weeks before our expected due date, my love jokingly commented, “well, I guess she could come and we’d be ready for her.” As I smiled at the thought she quickly continued, “But not yet, she still needs to cook a little longer.” Babies are like turkeys, though. It doesn’t matter if the potatoes and green beans are ready, when the little gauge on the the turkey pops, its time to come out of the oven.

~~~~~

The worst part about working in my industry is the hours in the summer. It is not uncommon for me to work 12-14 hour days 6-7 days a weeks for months at a time. It’s difficult to complain at times, though, I’m paid well given my age and experience and the company I work for has allowed me to achieve many of my goals over the last ten years.That said, the hours suck no matter how you spin it. I was a few weeks into one of these grinds when I awoke to my wife kneeling over me. She asked, “Hey, I have my doctor’s appointment this morning, do you want to go with me?”

Something wasn’t right in her voice, “yea sure, why what’s up?”

“I think I’m in labor.”

Boom, I’m awake. I get up and dress while I call my boss, informing him that I’m probably not going to make it into work that day; baby stuff and all that. Before long we’re out the door and on the way to the doctor happily discussing the chances of it being that evening or the following morning that we would finally get to meet our daughter. While distressed, it was still two weeks from the due date, we were confident that we were prepared. Up until this point everything had been smooth sailing. We were having a perfect, healthy baby girl.

When we arrived at the doctor, he happened to have an intern who assisted him in the examination. You could tell this guy was more nervous than me, but I fully understood that look of pure joy and terror; that same struggle was raging inside my head. I was in total awe that we had finally reached this point. After a brief examination, he informed us that she was further along than either of us had expected, but none the less this was going to be a long process and it would be in our best interest not to stress too much about it. We made an appointment to come back later that afternoon to check the progress. As we left his office, he gave us a final piece of advice, “go home, pack your bags and clean your house. Kick your feet up and try to relax, I’ll see you tonight.”

At home we did exactly that, packing overnight bags and making arrangements for someone to look in on the cat. As the morning progressed, my wife had more and more difficulty going about her day. Each new contraction brought an intensification of pain that seemed to last longer and longer. Certainly uncomfortable, we were not distressed; this was labor after all. I tried to remain focused and calm, but my nerves were shot and the excitement of what this day would bring was getting the best of me. As she became more and more distressed, I began to question my better judgement. Maybe the doctor was wrong and this show was going to roll a little faster than we expected.

I set about packing the car and making the final preparations to head to the hospital; ignoring her complaints that arriving so soon was going to be a huge waist of time; they would send us home if it was too early, she proclaimed. This was in between contractions that were dropping her to her knees if she was standing and curling her into a fetal pose if she was not. I’ve known this woman for over a decade and know her better than I do anyone else, I could clearly see the anxiety she was in and suspected this was not normal labor pain. In an attempt to calm both of us, I had her lay down so we could time her contractions. I was shocked. I made her do it again to confirm before exploding into action. Less than three minutes. We were fifteen miles from the hospital. We were fucked.

~~~~~

I’m one of the worst drivers you will ever meet. It’s not that I drive like an asshole or break any ordnances; on the contrary, I’m a notoriously cautious driver. Why get over into the fast lane to pass someone when doing so would require two additional maneuvers that increase the probability of an accident occurring. Same applies to tailgating when the easier – and wiser – solution is to also slow down. Who knows, maybe they know something you don’t. While this seems absurd to an average onlooker, if you multiply this exercise over the course of a lifetime, I’m probably going to outlive all of you by 10-12 years.

I channeled Nascar skills that can only be acquired by being born and raised in southern Indiana that afternoon. Having thrown mom-to-be into the passenger seat, I hopped in and took off for the hospital. Thankful for the preprogrammed destination marker in my phone, we made good time to the hospital. As we approached, my bride commented that we had gone a different route than the last time we had come to this particular hospital. Given the time we made, we had obviously taken a better route this time.

Pulling into the parking lot of the medical plaza, I knew something was wrong and every fiber of sanity exploded into nothingness in an instant. No Emergency room sign, no ambulances, no fucking hospital. Three weeks it set in my phone, waiting to be noticed. Three weeks I checked it regularly to ensure it was still there. Three fucking weeks and I never noticed the word “associates” at the end of the name tag. It took twenty seconds to account for the existence of a private practice that used a similar name to our receiving hospital before I had a new course set. We had left the house twenty-five minutes prior. We were now 20 miles from the hospital and the only way to get there would be to cut through some of the city’s busiest roads. I was terrified, I told her we were very close and not to worry. I sped up.

The car was a new lease that had yet to be fully broken in, the breaks were a little tight and the engine still had that new car stiffness. I broke that bitch in that day. Due to the prevalence of “Michigan Lefts”, a convoluted system of turning right to go left because roundabouts are apparently too complicated, traffic lights tend to come in bunches; usually two or three at a time. This made going 90 mph impossible without running all of them. In my mind I was begging – praying – to blow past a cop so I could get someone in front of me to help get us there faster. No cops came, no fucks were given.

At this point, the contractions had shifted into one continuos explosion of pain after another. She was completely delusional with pain and anxiety, which thankfully kept her slightly distracted and detached from our current predicament. That changed when her water broke. We both knew that time was running out and we needed help. I called 911 and frantically explained the situation and requested they send a unit to guide me through the lights; informing her in no uncertain terms that I was driving recklessly and would continue to do so until help arrived or I made it to the hospital. When I heard sirens I pulled into a parking lot and was greeted by some of the most professional and competent men I have ever met. They acted quickly and with skill, calming our nerves while hastily gathering us into the ambulance.

A quick examination showed that the baby could be felt in the birth canal and that very soon we would be meeting our daughter. Having climbed into the front of the ambulance I looked at the driver pleadingly and asked if we would make it to the hospital. With a smile, he informed me all of his kids were born in that hospital, he knew all the back roads, and was confident we would be fine. He got us there ten minutes later and we were rushed into the hospital and directly into the delivery ward; right into the hands of the meanest, nastiest cunt I’ve ever met in my life.

Her pain was the only thing in the room, hanging heavy like a too thick comforter in July. I could feel her distress in my bones and looking into her eyes, I knew she suspected something wasn’t right. The floor nurse, upon learning this would be our first child, promptly stated “oh honey, you’ll be ok. we’re professionals here and I promise you, you’re fine.”

“Fuck you, bitch! I’m not fucking fine! I’m dying and something is wrong!” my loving wife informed the nurse, “get me some fucking drugs and find my god damned doctor!”

As we all stood pleasantly in each others company, the on staff delivery specialist walked into the room to assess the situation and determine if they still had time to administer an epidural. She spent several seconds examining my wife before she looked up and as all the blood drained from her face, she softly stated, “The baby has entered the birth canal and she is presenting as a full-frank breech. Prep an OR now and call everybody.”

~~~~~

I had a hot tub fall on me a couple of years ago that, in landing on my uplifted arm, completely detached my bicep from my shoulder, leaving a noticeable tare in my tricep, and shifting my humerus bone into my shoulder cavity. It took four surgical anchors and six months of physical therapy to regain a semblance of functionality. Post surgery, I developed a damaged nerve in my elbow, causing me to constantly drop things an literally putting my arm to sleep for hours at a time. To this day I can’t hold my arm above my head for more than a few minutes. I can’t sleep on my side or stomach for any period of time. I also can’t hold my child while standing for more than a few minutes without pain. I would do it all every day to never hear those words again.

It was an explosion of activity and a I struggled to keep up and keep calm as they wheeled her out into the hallway. Rushed words were spoken between the medical professionals present and a few went off in different directions to presumably gather people and supplies. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard a voice come on over the hospital’s intercom system requesting all prenatal specialists to report to a developing emergency in the maternity ward. I wondered if they were talking about us. In the aftermath of the day, I reflected that it was most certainly for us.

Our entourage turned a corner and came to a set of double doors. A button was pushed and the doors swung open revealing a blindingly bright and immaculately clean surgical room. As I went to follow through the door, a nurse turned to me and stated, “I’m sorry honey, but you’re going to have to wait out here for now. We’ll take good care of her and I promise to send someone out to you once we know more about what’s going on.” I stood staring at the spot where she stood moments before as the doors slowly closed in my face.

With a loud click, the doors latched shut and the last strands of sanity in my over-stressed mind crashed into a million splinters. And for a few moments I stood alone in that hallway and absolutely lost my shit. I begged. I pleaded. I tried to justify my demands, “I don’t ask for shit. I’ve never called looking for a good parking spot or a raise at work. I’ve tried my damn best to live my life based on my definition of you; well now I’m cashing my chips in. Save us. Save them. I can’t live without them. You can’t make me live without them.”

When I heard my name from down the hall, I turned to see my in-laws moving toward me. I rushed to their side and frantically tried to describe the situation. Before I could give them many details, the nurse returned with the promise of delivering me to my wife’s side. I turned and rushed toward the nurse standing in the bright lights, literally and figuratively leaving my wife’s parents in the dark. I was ushered into a scrub room and as I quickly dressed, the nurse described the situation to me and what I could expect to see.

“As you may know, there have been some complications. The baby if folded in half and has entered the birth canal butt-first. Initially we had intended to perform an emergency c-section, but she’s too far along.”

“Are they going to be okay?”

“There are some very good doctors in this room.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

~~~~~

Throughout her pregnancy I took great joy in pointing out the probability that my wife was going to poop during delivery. As we have a relationship built on unshakable loyalty and a deep rooted personal connection, she would simply point out that this was likely to make me more uncomfortable than her. Thus is the nature of true love. I couldn’t tell you now, if she pooped or not, but I know one thing for certain, she bled buckets full. At one point I found myself looking down at the ground and was struck by the 30+ pair of feet. Most of the nurses, both male and female, wore sneakers while the actual doctors wore much fancier footwear. All of these various sets of shoes shared one common quality, they all stood in a slowly expanding pool of my wife’s blood.

There were footprints from one side of the room to the other with smears and slides from when one person or another slipped slightly. There was no time to worry about this, because as it had turned out, a lot had happened while I was out in the hallway having a heart to heart with God. Intending to perform an emergency c-section, they had quickly administered an epidural, completely numbing her from the waist down. Too late, they realized this wasn’t an option and now we were trying to delivery a baby as quickly as possible while unable to know if a contraction was occurring or not.

Furthermore, the baby was upside down and backwards, so it was impossible to consistently get a signal from the fetal heart rate monitor, forcing a nurse to constantly hold a handheld monitor to her abdomen. So there we set, me on one side holding her hand with a nurse on the other trying to hold a heart rate monitor in place, while a team of doctors and nurses stood looking for signs of contractions that my wife couldn’t feel. We did this for what seemed like a lifetime. Occasionally, one of the surrounding doctors would lean in to offer advice or to make an adjustment to her technique. This wasn’t the romantic and quiet delivery we had imagined; this had turned into a god damned party.

In all of the chaos, it was the group in the corner that didn’t move I found to be most distressing. No less than ten men and women stood, silently guarding the sterility of a table full with surgical equipment. I knew without asking they were the last line of defense in this war. If they had to step in, things were going to get bad very, very fast. I’m thankful to this day the skill of that group was not tested that afternoon. Instead, our salvation stood with an absolute stroke of pure luck or divine intervention.

A well respected neonatal surgeon happened to be in the hospital to inform one of her patients that her pregnancy would likely end in a miscarriage. Dr. Doom & Gloom, the nurses called her behind her back because part of the territory with being a highly successful , high risk neonatal specialist is losing a noticeable portion of your patients. This woman couldn’t have stood more than 5′ tall and was the best dressed person in the room. But when my wife cried out that she couldn’t do it, this forceful little woman grabbed her by the front of her gown, pulled her within inches of her face and proclaimed, “You can do this. You will do this. I was a breech baby and I’m fine. You’ll be fine. You have to do this.”

Five years of training and neutering her body had prepared her for this moment and with every ounce of strength, conviction, are pure unadulterated emotion, the love of my life and the mother of my child fought for her and our daughter. The tension climaxed as her shoulders slipped out and my wife closed around her tiny neck. For an unending moment, the room was silent as my wife tried to channel the last reserves of her strength. As Addison’s head slowly emerged, the doctor reached into her mouth, fish-hooking her tiny mouth and pulling her the rest of the way out. The room erupted in applause as the head nurse rushed our child to the oxygen table. I left my wife to complete the remainder of the delivery and stood in awe at the greatest thing we’ll ever create.

Delivered in a trial by fire, into a world of untold turmoil was this perfect little example of everything that is right in the world. I’ll never love someone as completely as I love this child and though I may never win tickets to a concert or get front row parking at the grocery store, I’m okay having cashed in all my chips because life couldn’t be better. Every evening I walk into our home and see that perfect little smile I’m reminded of what it took to get her here. I hug he close and kiss her mother on the forehead and I’m reminded how much I have to be thankful for.