Waiting

I watched the elevator door close, separating me from Sara. It was expected, but not well accepted. I would have to wait for about an hour before being able to go up to the NICU. The nurses said they needed the time to get Sara stable. I was left to reflect on the first few minutes I had had with Sara. After she was born, they rushed her to the warming bed. She was so small. I stood on the edge of a circle of nurses watching as they cleaned her, took her temperature, checked her heart rate, and seemed to check her head to toe. Once the cursory checks were done, the circle of nurses were moving, with the warmer in the center. Out the door and down the hall towards that isolating elevator. I was worried, and angry. Why was it, that I could not watch what they were doing to my daughter. I wanted to be right there. I left insignificant in the those moments and helpless. I wanted to care for Sara, and was told no. I was an observer, not a factor in whether she survived or not. This moment was one of the most helpless I have ever felt. I am sure that what was happening was routine. That is was done in the best interest of Sara. The logic of the process is not lost on me. But in those moments of new fatherhood, I was not logical.

Thud?

I was there when Sara entered the world. Sara came early. 25 weeks. She just would not stay put. Kind of like her dad, i guess. I had been sitting in the rocking chair in the birthing room at Carolina's Medical Center in Charlotte, waiting for her to get here. She was not expected as soon as she came that day. The bed was set up with a little shelf below. A sheet covered the whole end of the bed. I was sitting there waiting and jotting notes in a big green journal I had been keeping about her birth process.

Sitting there, I heard a soft thud. I stood immediately and walked over to the bed, and lifted the sheet. and there was Sara. My movement, must have attracted the attention of the nursing staff, for they were there instantly. Sara was gently scooped up and placed in a warming bed. She was so small to see, but I did not care. I was a father.

The nurses worked quickly to stabilize her. They placed an airway for her and started providing artificial respiration. Sara was cleaned up and wrapped up in the cutest simplist blanket I had seen. Prayers that I can't recall the words to, ran throught my mind and lips. I could not take my eyes off of her. A huge sense of protectionism surfaced in me. I had to watch every move to know what they did to MY LITTLE GIRL. I followed them as they wheeled the bed to the elevator at the end of the hall. The elevator took them up one floor to the NICU.

Welcome to Sarah's Blog

I am David Kellin, Sarah's father. Sarah died on February 29th, 2000. This blog is a way for me to share her story. This is not a pretty story to hear. Who wants to read about a child who has died. That is the point. Most folks shy away from the details of a child's death. Yet, for the father, and I guess for parents, the story is a vital part of their life.

Sarah's story is a vital and necessary part of my life. It is what I have left. Sarah is gone, and the memories remain. By reading this blog and learning about my daughter, you give me a gift that is priceless. I can't and don't want to forget my daughter. I hope you will want to know her, and come to love her as I love her.