Seven years ago Joseph insisted on taking me to the doctor because I was seeing black spots and I was already suffering from toxemia in this the beginning of my sixth month of pregnancy. I didn't want to go. I felt fine but in my heart I knew that black spots could not be good. And I hate all the doctor things that they do to me, the needles, the tubes that go everywhere (and I mean everywhere!) and the incredible pain that comes with caesarean birth. So I really didn't want to go, after all I still had three months to go.

But we went to have breakfast at the restaurant across from the hospital and then over to see the doctor. Then we spent hours trying to convince them to see me, (the idiots) and finally saw someone who had working medical knowledge on high risk pregnancies. I was whisked off in an ambulance to a better equiped hospital, with all my tubes already in place. This tiny oriental lady explained that she would be taking the baby that night or sooner if need be. Whoa, I had thought they would just admit me for a few weeks to give the baby a chance to live but no...the oriental lady doctor explained that the way things were looking they had to take out the baby right away or neither of us would live.

They pumped me full of some chemical to prevent the onslaught of seizures that were about to happen and to prevent the stroke that was about to happen. They padded the rails of the bed to protect me from breaking my bones if I actually went into grand mal seizures. And Joseph sat there with me the whole time. Not knowing if his life was going to be forever altered by the events that were about to take place. Would he even have a wife? Was his unborn baby going to live? If the baby lived, and I died, what was he going to do? How could he raise all three children by himself and one of them a tiny little premie to boot.

I think he was feeling very guilty about things.

In a moment of weakness right before they hauled me off to prep for surgery I do recall crying a bit but then sucked it up and went along for the ride. When stuff like this happens the patient just becomes a passenger on the ride of life, I had no control over the things that were happening to me. I was either going to live or I was going to die. At that stage I was closer to the dying side.

The operating room was huge and cold, except for the gigantic lights above the table. I of course was stark naked stretched out on the table with my arms strapped out in the shape of the cross. Don't think I didn't see the irony in this. Joseph was able to come and sit by my head and report on the various stages as they happened. I asked him later what it looked like as they cut me open and his answer was along the lines of "stew meat".(To this day I don't really care for stew meat.)

Now the really precious thing that I get to keep in my memory forever is the look on Josephs face when they lifted the baby out of me. It was such a combination of eagerness, desire and anticipation all over his face. He half stood up in his anxiousness to see the baby and then with a great deal of joy told me that we have a baby girl. And another red head! Quietly to my self I thanked God that it was a girl because I knew that the survival rates for girls was way better than for boys.

The next few hours was a glorious adventure in the world of morphine. Including an encounter with little monsters that popped up out of the white sheets on my bed. And an intense itching of the skin. But I loved the happy high feeling of not having a care in the world. Occasionally someone would come and give me an update on the baby. "2 pounds, 2 ounces", " On the respirator", "Hanging in there."

Needless to say it was quite awhile before I was up and about and even longer before I actually got to see my baby. My rabbi friend wheeled me to the neonatal intensive care to have my first look at her. A tiny little smidge of a person. Premies are not cute. They look like little old men who have been horribly abused. But she was so helpless looking, and so restless. We couldn't touch her or talk too loud because the sensory overload alone might have killed her.

After two months I got to take my baby home. She weighed just over 4 pounds at the time and was the cutest little red head monkey you ever saw. Smaller than many dolls and with a sweet angel face. And healthy, Oh Thank You God!, She was healthy.

Today is Caseys Birthday. We are celebrating. She is seven years old. They had a spelling test in her first grade class and cupcakes at snack time, courtesy of yours truly.

God bless you guys.