Short Stories

A Father's Perspective

When I found out my wife, Sarah, was pregnant I scooped her into my arms and kissed her more passionately than ever before. When the doctor said we were to have a little girl, I smiled from ear to ear for a full week. When I held my daughter for the first time, I vowed that I would never let anything bad happen to her. Talk about irony. Three weeks after I made that promise we were all back at the hospital. Jordan wasn’t eating right and had lost too much weight. To be honest, I chose to be oblivious to the fact that my daughter was ill. I just couldn’t accept that something could be wrong with my angel. It was my wife who pointed out Jordan’s weight loss due to her inability to keep down any formula and insisted we get her to the doctor immediately. As always when it comes to something like this, she was right.

I remember the doctors ordering test after test, all the while trying to tell Sarah and I that it was just procedure. When the results finally came in, he called us into his office where he sat doing his best to avoid eye contact until it came time to give us the news. Our daughter was dying. Our three week old, precious, loving, giggly daughter was given roughly a year to live. Looking back, I remember being furious at the doctor. Furious at this man who was doing all he could to help and had done nothing to cause this. I remember wanting to hit him, and truth be told, had I not caught the sight of my wife out of the corner of my eye, I might have. Sarah sat to my right, head in her hands, shaking. Seeing such a strong woman in a state of despair melted my rage and I sat on the floor in front of her and wrapped my arms around her small frame. I wanted to tell her that it would all be okay, but we both knew that would have been a lie. I wanted to tell her I loved her, but she knew that and saying it now wouldn’t have made a world of difference. I didn’t know what to say. I just started praying. On my knees in an oversized doctor’s office, holding my weeping wife, I whispered desperate prayers for strength to my Creator.

As time went on, I found it easier to forget that Jordan was sick. She was such a happy baby and aside from her being smaller and more delicate than other kids her age, she showed no signs of her illness. I loved putting her down on a quilt my mom had made for her in our living room and watching her roll from place to place. I loved watching Sarah with her. Every night Sarah would sing to Jordan. Sometimes she would sing old hymns and other nights I could hear Sarah struggling to find words that rhymed as she made songs up as she went along. But most of all, I loved being the first to wake up when Jordan cried at night. I know most parents dread the late nights, but I savored them. It was in the dead of night that I bonded with my daughter, telling her stories of my past and sharing hopes for her future. I guess knowing deep in my heart that Jordan would never see a kindergarten classroom made it all that much easier to tell her how to behave once she got there.

At eight months old, Jordan had become a regular at the hospital. All the nurses adored her and seemed to spend extra time at her bedside. Thankfully, the company I worked for provided excellent insurance and allowed for Jordan to have the best home care possible. We would stay a few days at the hospital and then were able to pack up and head back home for a few weeks, back to pretending all was well. It wasn’t until a few months later that I truly realized the severity of my daughter’s illness.

It was Jordan’s first birthday, a day that should have been filled entirely with laughter, gifts, and all around happy thoughts. I, as usual, had awoken to Jordan’s first cry over the monitor and jumped up to warm a bottle for her when I noticed that this cry wasn’t the same as the hundreds I’d heard before. This cry was muffled and more of a moan than an actual cry. Sweat instantly formed on the palms of my hands and I knew that something was wrong. I raced to Jordan’s room and saw my frail, precious, angel violently thrashing from side to side in the most unnatural ways. I saw her eyes had rolled back into her head and she was drooling more than ever. I screamed for Sarah and grasped Jordan in my arms. Feeling her muscles spasm so aggressively against my chest brought on an unexplainable panic and I knew from that moment on things would never be the same.

She spent the rest of her life in the hospital and seizures like the first became routine. Jordan was hooked up to three different machines and eventually doctors had to place a tube in her stomach to feed her and a different tube in her throat to help her breathe. Sarah and I sat, holding her hand, every waking moment. We spent nights next to her incubator in cots the hospital provided, crying, praying and even laughing about cute things Jordan did or just reminiscing about old times.

When I remember Jordan’s death, I like to imagine angels coming to my daughter’s bedside and carrying her home. I had been casually flipping through a magazine and Sarah was deep in prayer when the monitors panicked. Nurses appeared instantly at Jordan’s side and they began to try and revive her failing body to no avail. My heart raced and I began to hyperventilate. My wife began to cry and clung to me, searching for any kind of comfort. After what seemed like hours, the nurses began to remove their gloves and the doctor announced there was nothing left to do, Jordan had died.

Sarah’s strength amazed me. She reminded me that God had blessed us with Jordan for the time that He did and that I should thank Him for it. I did. At Jordan’s funeral we asked that everyone wear yellow, Jordan’s favorite color. Surprisingly, that day brought more joy than pain. Everyone shared their stories of Jordan’s life and how such a little girl’s strength had taught so many so much. After everyone had left the funeral home, I made my way to Jordan’s casket. I’d avoided it all day because I didn’t think that I could handle seeing my angel that way. I stood above her body, admiring how beautiful she looked in her yellow sundress and realizing that she didn’t just look asleep, like everyone had said. She looked completely at ease. I reached in and held her hand one last time. As a tear fell from my cheek to the casket, I recalled memories with daughter. I told her how I felt when she took her first steps, how proud she made me when she said “Daddy,” and most importantly, I told my daughter that I loved her. I leaned down close, kissed her one last goodbye kiss, and promised that she would always be my little angel.