Tomorrow is your 33rd birthday.
Damn, where did time go?
On that date, May 2, 1983, I'd only recently had surgery myself for a hernia, and I was pretty weak and uncomfortably stapled together at the incision--then bam, you decided to arrive about 6 weeks early.
I had the surgery thinking there was plenty of time to recover before you arrived. There wasn't. You had your own opinion about things even then, and you still do.
That morning, after a quick dash with your mother Linda to the hospital in a taxi, I was in the delivery room watching the miracle of you--the only real miracle I believe in--in real time. You came via a C-section; your mom was fine but heavily sedated, and all was good. A CPN cleaned you up all nice and pretty, wrapped you in a blanket, and handed you to me!
I had not expected that, and almost refused on medical grounds. But of course I could not.
Jesus, I thought, what if I dropped you? So fragile, so small, and I was in pretty bad shape, feeling my wound, but determined. I took you out of delivery and got on the elevator with you. Was I carrying you properly? I worried I might do something wrong, but I was excited. There you were, a living, breathing doll.
We made it to your room long before your mother did, then you spiked a temp and off to the incubation room we went. There, in the habitat of a preemie, you dozed on and off for a week, given small sustenance by hospital staff.
With a bruise on your forehead shining like a freshly picked strawberry, you gathered your strength before going home.
What, me worried? Only a little, and so it has been for 33 years--a little worry, like every father. But moreso the awe from watching you become who you are.
So if you read this young woman, Happy Birthday. I know you've heard this story many times before. I still say you're the greatest.--Pops
TS
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