Always Needing a Stage
My Princess entered the world with all the drama and grandeur she would later reserve for every school play, choir performance, and family gathering where she “accidentally” ended up center stage.
Andrea had already been in labor for 26 hours — the kind of labor that makes you start bargaining with God, the nurses, and the hospital cafeteria staff. But something wasn’t right. Every contraction made our daughter’s vitals drop, and the doctors explained that the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around her neck like a particularly clingy scarf. With each contraction, it tightened.
Within 30 minutes, we were scrubbed down, gowned up, and rolled into the operating room for an emergency C-section. I was stationed at Andrea’s head, holding her hand, whispering reassurances, and trying very hard not to look like a man who had absolutely no control over anything happening around him.
When Alex emerged, she was a shade of blue that did not appear in any of the baby books. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t moving much. And while I’m not a doctor, even I knew, “Nope. Not great.”
A team of nurses and doctors whisked her to the back of the room, while Andrea — groggy, scared, and still on the operating table — kept asking, “Why isn’t she crying? Is she okay? When can I hold her?”
I told her the doctors were “just cleaning her up and running some tests,” which is fatherly code for: I have no idea what’s happening, but you don’t need this stress right now, and also please God let these people know what they’re doing.
Meanwhile, I’m watching the surgical team pull what looked like half of Andrea’s internal organs out, inspect them like produce at a farmer’s market, and put them back in. To distract myself, I focused on the gauze count — because apparently this is a thing. I counted at least two doctors and four nurses working in perfect synchronized chaos. They were a medical miracle in motion, saving both my wife and our daughter.
Alex, however, remained committed to the bit… and still refused to breathe. She was intubated and eventually transferred to the NICU at Mercy San Juan, which meant mother and daughter would be separated for the next three days.
Before they took her away, the nurses brought her to us in the recovery room. We both touched her tiny hands, memorizing her little face, and I took the moment to baptize her — a small act of faith from a terrified new father hoping for a little divine backup.
Alex pulled through, of course. And in true theatrical fashion, she has since developed exceptionally strong lungs and even stronger opinions.
In retrospect, she didn’t just make an entrance — she made sure we would never forget her opening act.
