When word got out about the miscarriage a lot of people sent me some very nice messages. Most were concerned mainly with how Heather was doing, which I understood. She was the one who had to learn the baby inside of her body no longer had a heartbeat, she was the one who had to undergo the D&C, and she was the one who had to be sore and uncomfortable afterward. Despite this, a good number of people also inquired about how I was doing, and I really appreciated that. While the Mom has to endure the hardest part, a miscarriage is still very hard on the Dad.

As hard as this all was, however, it could have been a lot harder. After getting the news I found myself thinking in a very gallows’ humor sort of way, “If there’s one thing that prepares you for a miscarriage, it’s losing a child.” Yep. Losing Maddie definitely put this into perspective. But it still stinks. Especially when Heather and I spent so much time preparing for what our life would have been like after the baby arrived.

One of the ways we did this was by discussing potential baby names. We debated them (“What about Eleanor?” “Really? Eleanor Spohr?”), made lists of our favorites, then pared down our top picks to our absolute favorites for a boy and girl. Sadly, I’m not sure what will happen to those names now. Even if we do get pregnant again, there’s something about giving a future child a name originally meant for another that doesn’t sit right.

We also spent a lot of time wondering about the sex of the baby. We knew that this baby would have made us either the parents of three girls or finally given us a boy. Those are two very different kinds of families, and we talked late into the night discussing each:

Me: “I think a family of girls would be cute.”

Heather: “You think never getting to use the bathroom again would be cute?”

Me: “It wouldn’t be that bad.”

Heather: “Yeah, it would. I’m a girl. I know. You know what would be cute though? A boy.”

Me: “You wouldn’t think that if you knew what boys do in the bathroom.”

Heather: “Ew. Maybe just girls is best.”

I eventually got a strong feeling this baby was going to be a boy, and started to get excited about the prospect of having a son. Of course we’ll never know now if I was right, but part of me will always wonder. Was this pregnancy the son I was supposed to have? Or was it to be another beautiful girl?

The hardest part of this though just might be what it will do to any future pregnancy we may have. It’s sad/funny… when Heather told me she was pregnant I gave her a little speech about how she needed to enjoy this pregnancy. It would be her last, and since her previous pregnancies were so stressful, she needed to savor and enjoy the experience as much as possible.

And then this happened.

There will be no savoring or enjoying any future pregnancy. There will only be white knuckle fear the whole nine months. I’ve met some blissfully naive people who say stuff like, “I love ultrasounds! They’re so fun! You get to see the baby! How cool is that?” and I’m glad things have gone so smoothly for them. But ever since our first ultrasound with Maddie we’ve never been anything but scared out of our minds during an ultrasound, and that will never change.

I’m hanging in there, though. I’m doing my best to move forward and hoping that, with any luck, our hardest days are behind us.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

The bizarre thing about the recent Time Magazine cover piece on attachment parenting is that, while the cover was controversial, the actual article was pretty straight forward. In fact, if you read it without having seen the cover, you’d probably wonder what the hullabaloo was about. So what exactly was the problem with the cover? It had a lot to do with the caption, “Are You Mom Enough?,” which angered many who felt it fueled the fires of the media-driven mommy wars. This got me thinking about my fellow dads. Do we pit ourselves against each other as mothers are so often accused of doing? Is there such a thing as daddy wars? The answer, I decided, is yes, but in a very different way than you may think.

I’ve met a lot of fathers like me – men who take great pride in cooking our children’s meals, changing diapers, and giving out comforting hugs – and not once have I heard one of them make a judgmental comment about another father. This isn’t because we are so wonderful and swell, but because we already hear enough negativity about our ability to do the kinds of thing mothers have traditionally done. We see Huggies commercials on TV that present us as buffoonish parents, then take our kids to the store and get asked if we’re babysitting, and it’s disheartening. More men than ever before want to play a primary role in our children’s upbringing (this group includes stay at home dads, single dads, and regular dads who just don’t relate to Ward Cleaver), and we support each other in our efforts.

That’s not to say there isn’t conflict among fathers. If there are daddy wars, and I believe there are, the judgement is coming from dads who want things to stay exactly as they were in past generations. These fathers refuse to do the “women’s work” of taking care of their kids, and think they’ve done enough by bringing home the bacon.

“You got a vagina now?” one such dad asked me when I showed up at a get together with Annie and a diaper bag on my shoulder. Another dad at my old office openly mocked stay at home dads, totally unaware that only a few months earlier I was one myself. These fathers are proud of their inability to do the things mothers do, and don’t like dads who want to change the paradigm.

“So what?” you may be thinking. “Some dudes don’t give you props for wiping your kid’s ass. Get over it.”

Well, okay.  But here’s the thing. Giving men respect as competent fathers who are the equal of mothers is actually really important. Believe it or not all the jokes and condescension are significantly harmful for the future of our country. Did you know that by 2020 more than 60% of the college degrees in America will be earned by women? That means that in the near future there will be far more qualified women in the workplace than men, but if we don’t teach men that being a stay at home dad or their children’s primary caregiver is a commendable role, then guess what? The workplace will be clogged with men who are not nearly as qualified as their female counterparts, and a huge amount of highly qualified women will struggle to find jobs or receive promotions they deserve. The result of this? A higher unemployment rate and a crappy economy.

That’s why it is so important that we support a shift in gender roles. We need to continue fighting for women to earn the equality they deserve in the workplace, and we need to acknowledge that men can be equals in the home. The good news is that a growing group of men are proving to be “dad enough” to be a new and improved kind of dad. Maybe Time Magazine should do an article on that.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

It sucks growing apart from a friend. One minute you can talk about anything late into the night; the next you can’t even have the shortest of exchanges without lapsing into awkward silences. We’ve all been there. Sadly, I’ve found this often happens when one friend becomes a parent and the other doesn’t. Things don’t always have to be this way though. Lately my relationships with my non-parent friends have grown richer and deeper all because I’ve started to look at them a little differently.

Staying close to your non-parent friends once you become a parent can be hard, no doubt. When I first became a dad I was annoyed that my friends invited me out late on Friday nights and didn’t seem too sympathetic when I said I couldn’t go because of the baby. They also chatted about subjects – like the opening of a new club or how they’ve stepped up their workouts – that struck me as incredibly frivolous. This was annoying.

But guess what? I was pretty annoying too. I’m embarrassed to admit that I said stuff like, “You have SOOOO much free time. You don’t  understand how hard it is to be a parent!” Even worse, I sometimes discussed how Maddie gave my life meaning, and unwittingly implied that they were leading less meaningful lives in the process. Not cool. Also not cool? Talking endlessly about how adorable every little thing Maddie did was. Yep, I did that too. (Though, in fairness to Maddie, everything she did was adorable!)

Now that I’m older and have been a parent a bit longer I understand that having a kid didn’t turn me into some wise, old sage, and that my friends without kids weren’t as frivolous as I thought they were. They’re more than capable of discussing mature things, and have no problem hanging out with me during the daytime too. But the biggest thing I’ve learned is that I need to celebrate our differences. Instead of complaining that a friend wants to go to a ten p.m. concert at a club, I go happily when I can. Sure, I may be tired the next day, but going to a concert in a sweaty club and chatting about things other than Elmo are important for my mental health. My friends link me to my younger self and allow me to be more than just “dad” every once in a while.

Yeah, it’s blurry, but that’s okay …

I’ve also seen my new life enrich the lives of my friends without kids. They’ve bonded with Annabel, and dote on her in a special way that my friends with kids of their own don’t. They have truly special relationships with my little girl, and enjoy exploring their maternal and paternal side when with her. It’s beautiful to see.

Friendships may change, but that’s not always a bad thing. It took me a little time to see things this way, but now that I do I am so thankful these friends are still in my life and allow me to share in their lives. And I think they feel the same way about me.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

This weekend we were in San Francisco to take part in Jackie!’s Brain Tumor Walk, and Annie experienced the city in a major way. This was a joy to see since I grew up just outside the city myself, but I’m pretty sure Annie didn’t leave her heart in San Francisco. After riding down the city’s famously steep hills, I’m pretty sure her heart is now lodged firmly in her throat.

Bright and early Saturday morning I buckled Annie into her car seat and started off for the walk. As we neared the city I was a bit frazzled – we were running late and the directions were a bit complicated – so I wasn’t focusing on Annie in the back. It was only when our car went over a hill and descended what had to be the steepest street in all of the city that I caught a glimpse of her in the rear view mirror. She looked something like this:

Taken later while going down a hill she found far less scary than the first.

I did my best to tell her everything was okay (even though I, too, was a bit freaked out), but she was wisely skeptical of me. About half way down the hill we reached a cross street that ran on even ground, and Annie pointed down it, frantic. “GO DIS WAY, DADA!” she screamed. “GO DIS WAY!” Eventually we got the bottom and Annie was so happy that she would have dropped to her knees and kissed the ground if she wasn’t strapped into her car seat.

Luckily, there were happier times ahead. She had a great time at the walk supporting her Auntie Jackie! and hanging out with all the other kids in our group, then got to go to a San Francisco Giants baseball game the next day.

Annie went to baseball games when we were in Arizona for Spring Training, and amazed everyone by sitting in her seat calmly for the entirety of each game. It helped a great deal that she usually had a lemonade and bag of kettle corn (or “popcorns” as Annie calls it) to munch on, but at the end of the last game a woman sitting behind me tapped my shoulder and told me that she had never seen a kid Annie’s age do so well at a game. This, of course, made Annie’s baseball-loving parents prouder than you could ever imagine.

Though Annie did well in Arizona, I was a bit concerned that things wouldn’t go so well this time. I needn’t have worried though. The first thing she said upon waking was, “Go baseball town, Dada?” Then, after we entered the stadium, she squealed with joy and asked, “Popcorns, Dada? Popcorns?”

Heather ran off to get Annie her “popcorns,” as well as a lemonade to wash it down, and when she returned Annie was without a doubt the happiest two-year-old in the stadium.

The craziest part was that she seemed to enjoy the game. We watch a lot of baseball at Spohr Haus, and Annie clearly has been paying attention. In addition to clapping at the right time and shouting, “Hit the ball!,” she also reacted like a true fan when things went wrong:

Rejoiced when things went right:

And even chanted “Let’s Go Giants!”

All in all it was a terrific weekend and Annie made her old man proud. Heather tells me to watch out, though. When we get back to Los Angeles she intends to take Annie to Dodger Stadium to cheer on the (McCourt-less) Dodgers and chant “Let’s Go Dodgers!” We’ll see, Heather. We’ll see.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

When I take Annie with me to the supermarket I feel pressure for things to go well. I want A) Annie to be well behaved, and B) for me to find what I need and not shuffle from aisle to aisle like a lost puppy begging someone to help me find the canned tuna. This pressure is probably a little like the one women in the workplace feel to show they can perform as well as a man, because all I want to do is show Dads can be domestic too! Unfortunately, Annie doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. In fact, today she acted like she was out to embarrass me as much as toddlerly possible.

I’ve mentioned before how Annie used to be big on calling me “Mike” instead of Dadda, and how it drove me nuts. Luckily, she now calls me “Dadda” most of the time, but lately she has become enthralled by the fact other people call me Mike.

“He call you Mike, Dadda,” she will tell me when a friend is over. Other times, apropos of nothing, she will say, “Your name is Mike, Dadda.” I think it’s cute that she’s fascinated by the idea my name is Mike (and not just Dadda), but it’s not cute that she thinks other people should find it fascinating too.

Ha! Ha! Your name is Dadda AND Mike!

At the store today we were in the cereal aisle when she waddled over to some random lady and announced, “His name Mike!” The lady and I both chuckled. It was a cute and harmless “kids say the darndest things” kind of moment. But then on the next aisle she did it again.

“His name is Mike!” she proclaimed to the four of five people near the canned fruit. “Dadda name is Mike!”

This time it was less cute, and it only got less and less cute with each successive declaration. Finally, to distract Annie, I started to give her tasks like grabbing a box and putting it in our cart.

“Good girl, Annie!” I told her each time she did what I requested. “Good girl!”

Soon I had doled out five or six more “Good girl, Annie! Good Girl!” accolades, and we were ready to go. We went to the check-out counter, and of course the shoppers ahead of us were ones Annie had told my name to earlier. As I put our items on the belt I prayed Annie wouldn’t do the whole “His name is Mike” business again. It was embarrassing enough the first time.

Thankfully, Annie was silent as the people ahead of us were rung up, and continued to be when it was our turn. (I’m convinced she was day dreaming about Foofa.) As our items were scanned I thought, “Hey, I might get out of this without being embarrassed! Awesome.”

The checker scanned the last item, tossed it into a bag, then ripped the receipt from the machine.  “Congratulations,” she said. “You saved eleven dollars with your rewards card today. Nice job!”

Annie suddenly perked up upon hearing this and said, ““Good girl, Mike. Good girl!”

Laughter broke out in what felt like the entire store, and I’m pretty sure I turned as red as Elmo. From now on, I’m sure, I will be know at the supermarket as the “Good girl!” guy.

Thanks a lot, Annie. So much for Dads being taken seriously!

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

I recently watched a news report about how British police were stepping up their efforts to find out what happened to Madeline McCann, the British toddler who vanished without a trace back in 2007. As part of the authorities’ efforts to find her they released an age progressed photo of what she would look like today, and it got me thinking. Would I ever commission an age progressed photo of my Maddie? Is that something I would benefit from doing? Or would it be a terrible mistake?

Since Maddie passed many people have suggested that Heather and I have an age progressed photo of Maddie made, but I never gave the idea too much thought because it was too depressing. Today, however, I feel a little different. It has been three years since I last saw Maddie, and I can’t help but wonder what she would look like now that she would be just a few months away from turning five. Five. Five is the year she would start kindergarten. Man, what I would give to see my sweet, little kindergartener.

There is a magical element to this age progression stuff. It’s almost like something you’d see in a movie, where you get the chance to see what your life would be like… if only. That Nicolas Cage movie, “Family Man,” pops to mind. If you haven’t seen it Cage’s character gets a chance to see what his life would have been like if, instead of breaking up with his former girlfriend, he’d married her and started a family.

The problem is that, while “Family Man” ends happily with Nicolas Cage discovering he has a chance at a future with his former girlfriend, there can be no happy ending for me. I have no chance at a future with Maddie, and the photo would just be a mirage of a future that will never be. Is it really worth putting myself through that? It’s like scratching a bug bite. It might relieve my agony briefly, but make me feel a lot worse later on.

The other thing I worry about is that seeing an age progression photo of Maddie might muddle my vision of her. Right now I can close my eyes and see her – the real her – exactly as she was. If I look at a photo of this other, older Maddie, would that become the image I see when I close my eyes? Because if it is, even a little bit, I don’t want it.

Still, the allure of seeing what could have been – of seeing my kindergartener – is very powerful. It’s not a decision to take lightly though as it’s the type of thing you can’t un-see once you’ve seen it.  Really, what I want is a happy ending like the one seen in “Family Man,” but unfortunately that’s the kind of thing that only happens in the movies.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

When I was a kid I used to wonder why my Dad never bought himself anything – not tickets to cool concerts, not shiny “man toys” like power tools or golf clubs, not even a boat (which I know he wanted above all else). I just didn’t get it – especially when I spent my days trying desperately to convince my parents to buy me the latest Nintendo game. I vowed back then that when I was a Dad and had control of the checkbook I would buy myself all kinds of cool stuff and it would be awesome.

Well, guess what? Now that I’m a Dad and have control of the checkbook (you know, when Heather lets me see it), I never buy myself anything either.

Turning into my Dad is a somewhat recent transformation. When I was a single dude in my twenties I spent money on myself all the time, and even bought fancy label jeans (a ridiculous thing to do when the ones sold at Costco for twenty bucks are just as good, says the dad in me).  But when I got married and started a family that all changed. I began to worry about money, and it wasn’t long before I was going around the house shutting off lights and picking up pennies found on the street.

Look, Heather! A whole penny!”

Today, when something I would like to buy for myself comes on the market, there’s a little voice in the back of my head that always talks me out of it. (Note: the voice sounds disturbingly like Rick Moranis.)

“Yeah, it would be cool to buy that,” says the Rick Moranis voice. “But think about how many diapers you could get with that money!”

“Lots and lots of diapers,” I admit. “Two months worth, easy.”

“More like three or four. But forget the diapers. Imagine if you and Heather ended up short this month… You’d feel terrible you wasted money on a ‘man toy’ then, wouldn’t you?’”

“Yeah. That would be awful.”

“It sure would. But even if that doesn’t happen, is it wise to spend money on yourself when you could put it into Annie’s college fund instead?”

“No, Rick Moranis, it probably isn’t.”

This kind of internal dialogue probably isn’t unfamiliar to other parents out there. We give up so much of ourselves for our children – our time, our TV, even our music in the car – that it’s easy to not even realize when we’ve gone a long, long time without having done anything nice for ourselves.

And that isn’t good. Neglect yourself too long and you start to feel like you’ve turned into Brandon and Brenda’s boring parents on “Beverly Hills, 90210,” who only ever appeared drinking coffee in scenes set in the kitchen or TV room.

“Wait!” you scream at the heavens. “This can’t be! I used to be Brandon! I had the long burns and a closet full of cool, unbuttoned shirts! How could I have turned into the bald dad?”

Okay… I may be alone in my fear of turning into Jim Walsh, but you get the idea. While Annie should always come first, that doesn’t mean I always have to put myself last. I’m not the best at convincing myself it’s okay to do something for just me. Luckily, Heather recently insisted I buy a ticket to a concert I really want to see (The Beach Boys… how’s that for Dad music?), so that’s a step in the right direction…right?

Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to shut off any lights in the house that may have been left on. That ticket’s not gonna pay for itself.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Last week I wrote about Annie’s frustrating misuse of the word “help,” and you all gave me lots of incredible advice… thank you! Unfortunately, even once Annie overcomes her “help” issue she will still be able to drive me nuts because somewhere along the line she picked up what I call “The Toddlers’ Greatest Hits” – words and phrases that toddlers everywhere use to bug their parents.

Seriously, was a little toddler handbook passed out at the park? How did they all learn these?

Here are some of Annie’s favorites:

“More?”

…said the second she polishes off WAY more food than anyone her size should be able to finish in the first place.

“Where’s Dada?”

…recited like clockwork the moment I take a seat in the bathroom.

“That’s mine!!”

…whined when I take away a dirty napkin that she found on the street.

“What happened?!”

…said with total confusion after the balloon she was poking with a stick popped.

“Again?”

…shouted immediately when I put her down after spinning her in the air for ten minutes straight.

“Watch me!”

…ordered of her old man over and over and over as she stacks her blocks.

“Wanna play?!”

…cooed with big eyes and an adorable smile the minute I sit down to watch the Giants’ game.

“This one!!!”

…hollered when I open the ‘fridge door and she spots the piece of pie I hid for myself to eat later.

Are any of these a favorite of your toddler? Or has Annie forgotten a Greatest Hit your toddler bugs you with?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

One of the most amazing parts of parenting is watching your baby go from babbling incoherently to actually communicating. Today, for example, Annie was heading out the door with Heather when she turned around and said, “Daddy. You come too!” When I told her I would be staying behind she said, “No, Daddy. You come too. Come on. Let’s go!” I couldn’t help but laugh – it was the kind of conversation I’d imagined having with a much older kid, but here I was having it with my two year old. As cool as it is to hear Annie talk though, it isn’t without its drawbacks. What do you do when your kid says something you don’t like?

Among Annie’s adorable statements like “I love you, Dadda” and “Dadda, want to dance?” is a single word statement that is driving me nuts: “Help!” I don’t know when or where she picked it up, but she is milking it for all it worth.

“HELP, DADA!!!!” I will hear her tiny voice scream from the other room. “HELP!!!”

I leap up from whatever I’m doing and sprint to her side only to find her jutting her sippy cup at me.

“More milk, Dada?”

This, as you can imagine, is not cute. After a month of this I now just sigh and stroll over to see what is up, but that is not good. What if she’s actually in jeopardy and I’m taking my sweet time getting to her because she has “cried wolf” so many times?

I finally lost it and sternly told her that yelling “help” is not funny, and that it is a very serious word. Of course she just giggled over the fact she was getting a reaction out of me.

“Dada! Help! Look at my doll!”

Someone told me not to worry, that she will learn her lesson one day when she needs help and everyone is slow respond, but that hardly put me at ease. In fact, that is, um, THE LAST THING I want to happen. I want people to help her when she yells help.

Another bit of advice I received is to yell “Stop!” whenever she misuses the word, but that didn’t sit right with me either. Would it condition her to freeze up and not ask for “help” when she really needs it?

Ideally I would like to find some way to teach her the gravity of the word “help” and how it is to only be used when you are in trouble, but at her age it seems like that might be a conversation a bit beyond her understanding.

Is there anything I can do? Or will I be stuck running around after the girl who cried help until she is old enough to know better?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Today I ran into a Mexican restaurant to grab a quick lunch while I waited for my car to finish its smog check (it passed! Yay, car!), and as I ate my meal I noticed a table of nurses in hospital scrubs.  As they chatted among themselves I thought about the many nurses Heather and I have interacted with over the last five years, and I found myself filled with such appreciation for what these amazing women and men do for us.

It was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that I first saw how amazing nurses can be. I wanted so much to love and care for Maddie when she was born, but because of her condition I couldn’t. Instead, I had to trust the nurses at the NICU to take care of her for me, and that was incredibly hard – especially at night when Heather and I went home to catch a few hours sleep.

Sleeping was, of course, almost impossible. My sick baby was not with me, and the phone loomed ominously on the nightstand. If it rang before dawn it would do so for only one reason – to tell us Maddie had passed away. I can’t tell you how scared I was of that phone ringing. Thankfully, it never did.

Each morning I called the NICU at seven a.m. to get an update from Maddie’s night nurse about how she had done through the night, and the moments waiting for her to pick up the phone were horrible. Was I going to hear Maddie had done poorly and things didn’t look good? Or, if the nurse took a long time to come to the phone, did that mean she and the other medical staff were desperately fighting to stabilize Maddie at that very moment (something I had witnessed in person a number of horrible times)? My hands shook through each of those calls.

Thankfully, when the night nurse came on the phone she would always tell us about Maddie’s night in great detail despite having just finished a long, exhausting shift. The lengths these nurses went for Maddie were incredible. One night, we were told, Maddie wouldn’t respond to the ventilator, and she only survived the night because the night nurses took turns hand pumping air into her lungs for hours at a time until their hands were cramped and throbbing.

As amazing as all that was though, the thing that endeared me the most to the nurses was how they loved and valued Maddie. She wasn’t just some nameless baby behind the glass of an isolette, obscured by wires, medical tape, and breathing tubes. She was an amazing little girl named Maddie (also “Bunny” or “Little Mama” as they called her), who was beautiful and strong. I could feel that they considered her amazing and a gift, and to see others felt the same way about my daughter as I did was so meaningful.

Maddie and one of her favorite nurses at the NICU reunion.

Maddie was finally released from the NICU, but there were a few times when she came down with an infection and had to be hospitalized. Those days in the hospital were both frightening and incredibly dull, and again nurses were wonderful to us. They were always there when we needed them, quick to bring a blanket or to explain what medications Maddie was taking. Like the NICU nurses, these nurses showed Maddie so much love, mooning over how cute she was and making faces at her to keep her entertained.

On the horrible day that Maddie passed there was a nurse who stayed by Heather’s side the whole time, and I am so thankful for her kindness to my wife. There was a nurse that mattered to me too that night, though she didn’t stay by my side, bring me a glass of water, or even say a word to me. In fact, I don’t think I saw her until the last few seconds I walked out of the PICU, but she made a difference nonetheless.

You see, that day my life shattered. I watched my daughter die in front of me, and it was an experience so horrific that even now it seems almost surreal, like, “Did that actually happen? To me and family?” But it did, and one of the things I remember most about it was how the key medical personnel there didn’t make me feel like they found Maddie to be beautiful and strong or amazing and a gift. The lead doctor, for example, was under a great deal of stress, but the way he pronounced her dead was not right. It was more like a referee calling the end to a heavyweight fight than the end to a beautiful child’s life. Then, as we held our dead child in our arms and kissed her goodbye, doctors stood behind the curtain discussing the specifics of what had happened with about as much feeling as mechanics discussing a broken down car.

It was only as I left the PICU that I felt humanity from the medical staff. There, sitting on a chair with a single tear rolling down her cheek, was my nurse. Her tear told me that she cared. About Heather, about me, and most importantly, about my beautiful Madeline.

That’s what nurses do that is so important. In addition to all of their medical expertise, they bring a human element to the cold, sterile world of a hospital. Doctors do great things, but have a heavy case load that means they can only visit each patient briefly each day, but the nurses will hold your hand – figuratively or literally – and remind you that you are not alone, and that your life is valued even if it can’t be saved.

When the nurses at lunch today finished their meal I wanted to thank them, but I didn’t, and I wished I had afterward. I can do one better now though:

To Nurses everywhere… You should know that you have made a difference to so many people in this world, my family included, and I cannot thank you enough.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.