The gastro-enterologist had said that everybody out there has a story. I can see the lone figure of a man on the top floor of the garage. He is leaning against the short, cement wall that encircles the lot, and is facing away from me. I wonder what his story is. I watch him to remove my mind from the room for a moment. He doesn't move. After a few minutes, I'm not sure if he is really there at all. He may be part of the structure, transformed by distance and poor light into a semblance of humanity. I decide to check later to see if he has moved.

I think of the windows stretching out along the building on either side of me, as well as above and below. Behind these windows are more stories. Very few of them are happy.

It is Christmas. There is a decorated tree out by the nursing station. Here in our room there is a small, heated platform. A nurse came in earlier to check the oxygen tanks underneath it. She wanted to make sure they were ready. It is this little platform - really a tiny bed, with its plethora of emergency supplies, that causes me to look the other way, out the window.

My wife, Jenifer, lies chained to the larger bed by a confusing array of I.V. tubes and monitoring cables. Her right arm is discolored with bruises - a sign of her low platelet count. Her contractions pass unfelt due to the muscle relaxants in her system. We know she is having them by looking at the monitor screen facing the foot of the bed.

The doctors seem perplexed. Jen's liver function, platelet count, and elevated blood pressure, indicate that she has a condition called HELLP, which causes a pregnant woman's body to turn against her unborn child. The only cure for this syndrome is to induce labor and deliver the baby.

My thoughts turn to paper. I'm writing these words on paper. This hospital runs on paper. We had to fill out and affix signatures to countless forms. The nurses and doctors who bustle into and out of our dark, little room all carry clipboards full of paper.

One of them told us that our baby's skull will be as thin as paper.

She is only twenty four weeks old. Jen, during a quiet moment, summed it up poignantly: "She's so small, so perfect, so oblivious." She is floating in a perfect world. Completely dependant on her mother, and unaware that things are about to go horribly wrong. Horribly.

If she comes out now, it is very unlikely that she will continue to be perfect. We have been well briefed on what to expect. If she's in the fifty percent of babies who survive the outrage of being forced into the world this early, she still has to face months of hospital incubation, with very limited human contact. She could end up blind, or deaf, or with cerebal palsy. I am afraid of what lies ahead, but have resolved to see this through, no matter what happens. We hope that things aren't as bleak as they seem. The nurses have told us stories about 2 lb. preemies who have grown up to be healthy and happy. A nurse in this hospital had one. Ours weighs seven hundred grams, which is slightly less than two pounds. I know that the nurses are being selective in their choices of anecdotes.

Time passes in strange ways. Voices shout from intercoms. A woman howls from a nearby room, fully given over to the intensity of her own birthing experience. I hope her baby is well. I wish less pain upon everybody.

A doctor bustles into the room and informs us that the induction is being stopped. Jen's blood tests indicate that she is getting better. The initial diagnosis had been wrong. There will be no forcible ejection. Our baby's world will continue to be perfect for a while longer. We weep with relief.

Outside, on top of the lonely parking garage, the small figure has not moved. He is not real after all.
J8(8)