A Miracle Every Time.

Before my son was born my wife and I had had two miscarriages. Both times the baby’s heartbeat stopped sometime in the sixteenth week and she had to continue being pregnant for awhile before she could be induced: she had to give birth.

I don’t remember much about the first miscarriage except that I wrote in my journal, “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” I wrote that I cried my eyes out that night.

Both of us had kids from a previous marriage. We called them all together to tell them about what happened. I got choked up trying to think of how to tell grade school kids about the death of one of their siblings.

My wife, who was less prone to excessive displays of emotion, said bluntly, “The baby died.”

The girls burst into tears and one of the boy’s got red eyes but the other, the eldest, didn’t cry at all. He didn’t seem to be affected by the news. Then, while I was tucking them all into bed, I discovered him quietly sobbing: he had been brave for his little brother and sisters.


When my wife gave me the news about our second miscarriage I was just numb. I felt horrible. It was the same situation as the first time: about a week later they would induce her. I was so drained.


On the appointed day one of the grandma’s stayed with our kids while we went to the hospital to deal with another heartbreaking birth.

The hospital put us on the maternity floor because it would be a baby doctor that induced her. It would be a doctor who was dealing with happy events as well as our dismal affair.

Our room was down a dark hallway. Everyone spoke in whispers. The rest of the floor, where happy events were taking place, was well lit. People spoke in loud, jubilant voices while women grunted, groaned and cursed their impregnators.

My wife’s sister-in-law came to the hospital with us, this time. It was such a relief. It meant I could go cry in the hall when I felt overwhelmed. I didn’t have to keep a stiff upper lip and suffer the glare of my wife who had to be thinking, “Just grow a pair, already.”

From time to time a skittish middle aged lady nurse would come in and check on my wife’s progress. I moved slowly when she was in the room because I thought she might faint if I startled her. Her voice quavered when she asked my wife how she was. That poor woman did not want to be our nurse on that day.

When she was done with her duties she would stand there looking at my wife and wringing her hands until I told her it was okay to leave us.

Giving birth to a child is a long and boring process for a man. Inducing labor for a child that you won’t have to raise is even more so: we were only concerned with the mom.

I spent a lot of time between our room and the coffee machine in the nurse’s lounge. I wanted to stroll down past the rooms on the brightly lit side of the floor but was afraid it would make me cry.

I was strolling back and forth down the dark hallway when I saw our nervous nurse make her way to our room. I followed her in thinking I could catch her before she hit her head on the floor if she happened to faint.

In her quavering whisper she asked my wife how she was doing. Then she went about checking my wife’s vital signs. She also had to check the place where the results of our time spent in that room would end up. Sometimes she would change the pad that was laying there.

When that poor nurse lifted up the blanket she burst into tears. Through her tears she blurted, “it’s happened.” Sure enough, on the pad placed there for its arrival was a still, perfectly formed little human. It could have fit in the palm of my hand.

Dry eyed, my wife asked the nurse to hand it to her and it fit in the palm of her hand. I patted the nurse on the back and told her it would be okay. “There there,” I said.

After our nurse could breath normally again she dabbed away her tears and said, “I have to check its vital signs.” It was a ludicrous thing to make that poor woman do, but she was eventually able to put the stethoscope to its tiny chest.

Arrangements were made for the baby’s remains. I followed the nurse out of the room. She stumbled towards the well lit nurses station and I leaned against the wall and got in my last cry before getting another cup of coffee.


While getting that last cup of coffee a young black man came in to get one as well. He was dressed very nice and he seemed to be glowing. I was feeling small and shabby in my faded jeans and concert t-shirt, but he greeted me effusively just boiling over with joy.

“Oh man,” he said, “I just can’t believe . . . it’s so beautiful!” I gathered that he had come from the light side of the floor and had just watched his first child being born. “Man, I know it just, I mean, it happens thousands of times a day, but it’s a miracle every time!”

I had gotten so used to our skittish nurse, the whispering doctor and that unlit room at the end of the dark hallway that this man’s voice was a shock to my system. His boundless joy blew through my aching bones. I could feel the blood pulsing in my veins. I could see my children playing and their grandma getting them snacks.

It embarrassed me to be so sad in the presence of his boundless joy.

I knew this young man thought I was here for the same reason he was and I didn't want him to know the truth. I didn't want him to know I had come from that dark hallway.

So I made myself smile and allowed myself to cry a little, knowing he would think they were tears of joy. I put out my hand and he shook it.

"Yes it is," I said, “It's a miracle. Every time.”