The marvel of seeing a life come from another life is unforgettable, sadly not powerful enough to change mine.
I was employed at a fabrication plant when the call came in from Natasha, my daughter’s mother. She had been rushed to the hospital. I asked my supervisor, who happened to be a family friend, if I could go. He granted the request, and I left on foot. The plant wasn’t far from the hospital, and I didn’t have a car anyway. I arrived at the room where Natasha and her mother were talking. A smile appeared on Natasha’s face when I walked in, one of the finer moments in our relationship. She didn’t give birth for several more hours, but I stayed by her side. The nurse came in periodically to check her vitals. The doctor would pop in and literally poke around. “Almost there, just a few more centimeters,” he’d say. “Push! Push! PUSH!” the voices echoed. I watched as my daughter slowly emerged into a world I would soon abandon her in. Her tiny head appeared, then her body, and I fainted. We had been videotaping the event for posterity, but the tape ran out just before the baby was born. I had set the camera down and was standing at the foot of the bed. The marvel of seeing a life come from another life is unforgettable, sadly not powerful enough to change mine. In the midst of my own madness and addiction, when I stopped long enough to witness the birth of my daughter. That was 38 years ago. I love you Autumn.
