“She’s Out. She’s Beautiful.”

“CODED. She’s coding.”

That’s what they screamed. Nurses, midwives; all yelling from inside a small room where my wife was being prepped for an emergency c-section.

No windows, no information, just screaming. “She’s coding.”

Our doctor- a rock, a pillar- who had been scrubbing up, comes sprinting down the hallway along with what must be a dozen nurses. Everyone rushing. Everyone panicked. Everyone in full understanding of what this means.

But I didn’t know what it meant.

I stand outside of that room, unable to go in because of the surgery they needed to perform. I stand in that hallway, unable to breathe. I stare at the ceiling, unable to conjure the help that I needed from wherever I needed it from.

Should I call my Dad? Should I say a prayer even if I don’t believe in them? Should I kick through the door?

Instead I stand right there. Still. Never moving an inch. Wondering what is going on, what “coded” means. Wondering if it’s my wife or my daughter and even worse; wondering which one hurts more. I stood, motionless. Waiting for anything to change, any positive yell or celebration. But I didn’t hear anything, other than the dutiful work of a dozen or so hospital professionals.

How did this happen? Jen was pushing, we were taking our time, we were even making jokes on the way to the operating room. Sure, it was an emergency c-section, but nothing felt emergency about it. Just option B.

But now, it’s all different. It’s all wrong. This isn’t how I’m supposed to become a father.

Out of nowhere, the plain, drab door I was standing behind violently swings open. A nurse, holding the door with her hips and her hands in the air, looks directly at me and says, “grab my waist and don’t touch anything blue. I’m going to get you to your wife.”

“Okay.”

You often think about what you’re going to say or do in the biggest moments of your life. Is there a perfect response, a witty reply, or simply a statement of bravery that will echo the situation in which you’ve found yourself? But in that moment, staring at that nurse who was throwing me the only lifeline I had, the only thing I could mutter was, “Okay.”

I grabbed her hips and was toured through the operating room. It was incredible.

It was incredible.

Nurses, doctors, midwives, all moving a thousand miles an hour in perfect harmony. Everyone doing everything they could to make sure the surgery was a complete success. Everyone working to remove that tiny little baby from that woman who was scared to death. I was so impressed that for just a millisecond, I forgot that the work they were doing would have a profound impact on every day of my life thereafter.

When I got behind the sheet and looked at Jen, the only thing she wanted was an answer to her questions. How is Merrow? Where had I been? What had I been doing? What is going on? Who is coding and what does it mean?

“She’s coding.” It had stuck with her, too.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any of the answers. I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t know whom to ask. The only thing I had was more questions. How is Merrow? What is going on? Why was I outside? Why did this sort-of routine c-section turn into a carnival of hospital staff in blue and white scrubs? Why?

Why.

The only person I had to talk to was the anesthesiologist. He sat behind me, watching it unfold past the sheet, monitoring Jen and making sure she stayed safe throughout the entire process.

“How is she? Is she okay? Is she okay? IS SHE OKAY??”

He couldn’t answer. He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and tried to convince me that everything was going fine. We had the best team of doctors he’s ever worked with. You never wish for everything to go wrong at the same time, but at least it went wrong in this hospital. In this room. With these people. He calmed me down.

After what felt like an hour, but was probably closer to three or four minutes, he said the words that I’ll never forget. Words that mean more to me every single day, because I get to see up close just how much better my life has gotten in the last year. Words that changed me in ways I could have never seen coming.

“Man, she’s out. She’s beautiful.”

I looked up, just gushing tears. “What do you mean?”

“She’s out. She’s beautiful.”

A new set of nurses wheeled the crash cart over. I’ve never seen such a small little cart. The little paddles, the little electrodes, the little pillow. It was all just so little.

This isn’t how I’m supposed to become a father.

One thing I’ve learned since that day, among many things pertaining to cleaning out the inside of a baby’s vagina, is that you want a baby to cry like hell when they come out. You want to hear those lungs; you want to know that they’re not only alive, but also kicking and screaming their way into existence. You want them to come out swinging.

After a second or two of pulling her out, the silence was overwhelming. Maybe she was catching her breath, maybe she was still a little overwhelmed by the experience, or maybe she was just fucking with me for the first time in her life. But whatever the reason, I could see that little crash cart getting prepped.

With Jen still asking me questions, I leaned over the sheet to see whatever I could. Any image, any sound, any inkling that this would all just be a footnote on an otherwise happy day. And somehow, I got it.

She cried like hell.

She cried like she wanted us to know that this whole situation was bullshit.

She cried like she was announcing her way into this world with intention.

She cried.

I cried.

The whole room celebrated.

It was unreal. Doctors and nurses and midwives and other hospital staffers letting out big sighs and sharing smiles. It was a celebration.

I saw them flicking her little hands and feet as she kept on crying. I saw them running test after test. I saw them slowly rolling that crash cart away, and I saw them slowly rolling out the little heated bed that the luckiest kids got peacefully placed into. Most importantly, I saw that baby for the first time.

“Dad, do you want to come meet your daughter?”

I cried more. I was frozen.

“Dad. Come meet your daughter.”

Without even thinking, I just got up and walked away from Jen. Walked over to the nurses huddled around the most beautiful little thing that I’ve ever seen. Walked over to a squirming, pissed off little baby that had clearly grown tired of all those strangers flicking her little feet. Walked over to the most important thing I’ve ever done with my life… and I was really only responsible for the most fun part of creating her.

She’s out. She’s beautiful.

Those words kept ringing through my head as I sleepwalked my way through what everyone was telling me. I got to cut the umbilical cord and watch as she grabbed my finger for the first time; but through everything that was going on, tears streamed down my face. I had no control over them, over myself, over what I was feeling. For the entire process, I just kept asking, “Is she okay?” over and over like I wouldn’t believe them until I heard it from every nurse in the room.

She’s out. She’s beautiful. She’s okay.

Eventually, I remember that I have a wife. A wife that just underwent major, emergency surgery, all while not being able to see this incredible kid she had created.

I run back to her side and ask if I can bring the baby over. Jen was drugged up as hell because of the c-section, so I gently place Merrow on top of her chest and hold her in place. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.

We got to the post-op room, and then the recovery room, and then we were allowed to leave. In all that time, there wasn’t a single thing wrong. Merrow’s major drops in her heartbeat stayed unexplained, other than a possible complication with her umbilical cord wrapping around her neck. Her lungs, eyes, ears, heart… all perfect. The only way we’d even know she had a devastating birth was by our very own PTSD.

But don’t worry, we’d carry that around plenty.

I never asked the doctor what “coding” meant. Whether it was no heartbeat at all, or a low one, or maybe it had to do with oxygen. To be honest, I never want to find out. I never, ever need to know how close I was to missing out on the best year of my entire life. I never, ever want to comprehend the thing that destroyed me as I stood in that hallway, outside of those drab doors, waiting to see what was on the other side.

I’m not strong enough to find out.

So, instead I focus on the only thing I heard that day that made any sense to me. After the hours of labor, the pushing, the heartbeat dropping, the move to the operating room followed by the immediate rush of emergency staffers, the lonely hallway, and the nurse who threw open that door. After all of that, I only cared about these words:

“Man, she’s out. She’s beautiful.”

And boy, was he right.