Twelve years ago today, I arrived at Harris Methodist Hospital in Fort Worth, Texas, via ambulance, as The Princess had decided to arrive some 6 weeks earlier than expected. My doctor felt it would be best for me to deliver her next door to Fort Worth's preeminent children's hospital, as we expected to have her whisked away to the NICU.
Instead, she was born tiny but absolutely perfect. By the time I was out of the O.R. and on my way to the recovery room, they came to tell me that there wasn't a single health concern with The Princess, despite her prematurity. She never had to leave Harris, spending the first few days of her life in their basement nursery waiting on me to be cleared for discharge. We rode out one particularly nasty spring storm together in that basement nursery, and I remember how peaceful and safe it felt, sitting there with a dozen or so newborns, as the storm raged outside.
This morning, in that same hospital, my friend Allen will undergo surgery to remove as much of his brain tumor as they can. I hope and pray that he will get remarkable, if not miraculous, news when he wakes up in the recovery room. I am not usually an overtly spiritual person, but I can't help but draw parallels to the anniversary of my daughter's birth, and the fact that it is Good Friday - and hope that it means something positive that my friend is in that hospital having surgery on this day.
Whatever it is that you do to lift people up - a thought, a prayer, lighting a candle, lifting a glass - will you do it in the name of Allen, and all the other good people who have been dealt a shitty hand, today?