Susan Filipp writes:
My husband, Alex, and I were overjoyed when the doctor confirmed I was pregnant. "Thank you, God," I prayed. "Please let everything go right." And things did—until I went into labor two weeks early.
Alex and I rushed to the hospital at 5:30 A.M. In the delivery room, I could tell something was wrong. The doctors’ and nurses’ eyes were serious. I heard their urgent whispers. "Breech birth . . . she’s too cold . . . quick!" Why won’t they let me hold her? I wondered as I drifted off, exhausted.
When I woke up, my husband told me gently, "Our daughter’s in the ICU, honey. She had some trouble. Her temperature was only 96 degrees. Her left lung collapsed. Plus her hip is dislocated."
I gasped. Could a tiny baby survive so many problems?
Alex took my hand. "But there’s good news." He explained that our neighbor, a pediatrician, had been out for his predawn jog when he noticed our porch light on and guessed that I’d gone into labor. He had come straight to the hospital, so he was on hand to help with the delivery.
"And just yesterday they had a state-of-the-art incubator come in," Alex went on. "Our daughter’s the first one to use it. Now she’s a healthy 98.6 degrees, and her breathing’s back to normal too."
"What about her hip?" I asked.
"That’s going to be okay too," he assured me. Apparently, a while back an orthopedic ...
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