This certainly wasn't the way I envisioned becoming a father. You know, you always hear about the usual routine: Lamaze classes; the expectant mother's sudden contractions; the future dad's harried drive from home to hospital. Nobody could have predicted that this was going to be happening, that a baby due in March 1995 was entering this world in Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Four. Even so, I wanted to get in on some of the usual stuff. I tied a mask around my face and put on hospital garb, complete with slippers and hair net.

Alone I sat with my thoughts. Was Donna doing OK? What about the baby? Were we going to have a boy, or a girl? Oh well, I knew if the C-section was successful, and if doctors hooked the baby up to the state-of-the-art technology before something dire happened, everything would be all right. Then I remembered another comforting thought. I, too, was born extremely premature in December 1956. Nine or 10 weeks early and weighing just a few pounds, if that. And back then, it was truly an exercise in "sink or swim." Look at me now, I thought. I'm a relatively healthy adult. If I could make it in the medical pre-historic age, this child could make it with all the advances and specialized health care now available. No sweat, just keep thinking positive.

Meanwhile, family from both sides by now had filtered into the waiting room, located just down the hallway from "The Station," where I sat alone. It was now Sunday, November 20. "Swoooooosh..."

The double doors swung open, not too long after midnight. They rolled the cart past me. "You have a beautiful little girl, Mr. Smith." As those words were spoken, the procession moved toward the next set of double doors. I leaned in to get a quick glance at the tiniest child I had ever laid eyes on. I know I was only looking for probably only 20 or 30 seconds. But it easily could have been hours, as the image remains seared onto my brain. There were monitors and tubes everywhere, almost to the point where I couldn't see her face. But I saw that little pug nose. Just like her old man. Her skin was purple, enveloping a pencil-thin frame. But she seemed to have everything she needed. Two arms, two legs, 10 fingers, 10 toes. And one ecstatic father.

Content on this site is not a substitute for professional medical or healthcare advice, diagnosis or treatment, and may not be used for such purposes. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical question or condition. Reliance on information presented on this site is at your own risk. This site contains the opinions and views of other users. Given the interactive nature of this site, we cannot endorse, guarantee, or be responsible for the accuracy, efficacy, or veracity of any content generated by our users.