Dear Readers, 

Please keep in mind that Alia is a happy, healthy, beautiful little girl, who is now nearly seven years old.

 This happened on her first morning home.

It was nine o’clock. Shadow had gone out for his morning romp in the backyard and was back inside, guarding Alia’s bassinet. I had been giving Alia milk while she slept throughout the night—the first night of her life that she wasn’t strapped to monitors watched closely by NICU nurses. Now it was morning and time for her to wake up. But she was in a deep sleep and I didn’t want to disturb her, so I gave her more milk while she slept.

Hours went by. She was still sleeping. I got worried. In the hospital, she was usually moving around by now so I tried to wake her up. No response. I tried everything I could think of to rouse her. I turned the lights on as bright as they could go. I sprinkled water on her feet and face. I took off her pajamas—maybe the change in temperature would wake her. Nothing. I called her name. At first gently, and then more and more urgently. Alia? Alia! ALIA!!! Nothing.

Something was wrong. I called her doctor’s office and explained what was happening. The nurse quickly ran through a list of questions, her voice steady and assured. But my answers must not have been what she was expecting, because there was a long pause when she got to the end. I waited, hoping she was switching to a different set of questions, ones I had better answers for. Instead, I heard her take a deep breath before saying, “You need to call 9-1-1.”

She said something about seizures or strokes—I’m not really sure because I could barely hear her over the scream coming straight from my soul. My dog didn’t hear it. Alia didn’t hear it. But the primal scream of horror and agony was deafening and blinding and I was nearly crushed by the force of it.

I had poured everything I had, every bit of resilience, every stubborn hope, every shred of energy and optimism and sheer doggedness into getting me and Alia through those 92 days in the NICU. I wasn’t exhausted because that was a feeling I could recognize. I was something else. Before Alia was born, I had naively understood fatigue as a range from 1 to 10, but since then, I discovered it goes up to a hundred, and then a thousand, and you find yourself living in a place where there is no sleep anymore. It’s all one continuous, relentless stream of wakefulness. And you don’t bounce back after a good night’s sleep. There are no good night sleeps. And even if there were, the debt is too high to pay back. You stop tallying the deficit and simply go on, functioning in a different way.

But this was too much for me. And I had done everything I was told! Yet still, I had failed her. She lay limp and unmoving. The scream in my head turned into a wail. I did what I had to do: I called 9-1-1. As I was talking, I heard sirens. They were coming for us.

I didn’t feel relief. I wasn’t comforted by how quickly they responded. I held Alia close and against my will, walked outside. I got to the middle of our front lawn and stopped. Two enormous firetrucks pulled up and men came pouring out the sides of them. They had some of their gear on, but not pulled up over their shoulders. I saw massive arms reaching toward me, to take Alia. Instinctively, I pulled back. “She’s mine,” I wanted to say, but I couldn’t speak over the screaming. Incredibly, the firemen didn’t hear it either.

They were kind and reassuring. Gently, one of the firemen reached again. I held on tight. They brought out a bag of equipment and steered me toward the back of the truck. Someone who seemed to be the leader tried to measure her vital signs, but the devices were too big and they couldn’t get accurate readings. The fireman looked at Alia closely and said, “I think she just doesn’t want to wake up.” The other men agreed with him in the same genial tone. But she still wasn’t moving.

Whatever was holding me up started to give way. My grip loosened and instantly, the fireman, who was also holding Alia, lifted her up out of my arms. Another fireman circled behind me and held me up. This was it. I could take no more.

And then a miracle happened.

The fireman lifted Alia up toward the sky so she could feel the sun on her face. Her eyelids started to flicker and he brought her back down to nestle her in his arms. She woke up. He waited a few seconds and tickled her belly. She wriggled and smiled. She was okay.

Alia was three months old and had never seen sunlight. This was the first time she had even felt its warmth on her skin. The lead fireman continued to play with her while I tried to steady myself. The rest of the men lined up and asked if they could hold her too. I watched a group of men, as big and strong as they come, collectively turn into a puddle of goo as they cuddled and cooed over my baby wrapped in a pink flannel blanket.

And that is why I love firemen.

This happened a long time ago, but the image of those firemen doting on my daughter is as vivid as if it were yesterday. I thought of them recently, when I went to a school picnic and saw a group of firemen standing by their truck, showing kids the equipment and helping them climb in. Alia and I were sitting nearby eating our hot dogs and enjoying the warm (well, let’s face it, hot) humid air that settles in before a thunderstorm. The rain held off for the duration of the picnic, though, and we were having fun meeting new friends at the school Alia will be going to next year for first grade. Several parents approached us, genuinely happy to welcome us into their community. I appreciated those smiles more than they could know. We’ve come such a long way from that first morning home.

If you or someone you know is going through an intense challenge, where they feel the path forward is filled with dread and despair, maybe this story will remind them: miracles do happen. Sometimes you have to just keep breathing until they do.