2:45 A.M.

On a frigid January night one year ago, I steered our vehicle into the hospital parking lot. Chunks of ice cracked under the tires. I drove gingerly because the lot was slick, but also because my wife was in labor and getting ready to have our third child, our precious little girl Irene. 

A song called “2:45 A.M.” by Elliott Smith came on the car stereo. I glanced at the clock and saw it was just past midnight. I wondered what we’d be doing at 2:45 a.m. 

“It’s 2:45 in the morning

And I’m putting myself on warning

For waking up in an unknown place

With a recollection you half erased.”

I love that song. It’s quiet, yet tense. It fit the mood as we navigated the dark, nearly deserted, iced-over parking lot in front of the hospital.

I helped Stephanie out of the car at the curb and rang the after-hours doorbell so we could get buzzed in. Once she was inside, I parked the car and carefully shuffled across the parking lot toward the monstrous building, brightly lit from within.

We took an elevator up, checked in, waited for a few minutes, then were admitted to a labor and delivery room. Our doula joined us soon after.

Contractions escalated quickly. Nurses scurried around while the doula stuck close to Stephanie, whispering in her ear. I hovered nearby, paying close attention and waiting for someone to give me instructions. Not too many came my way. I did put on the playlist titled “Labor 2020” that Stephanie made weeks earlier and I got it playing on the portable speaker we brought from home.  

I think we got three or four songs into the playlist. Stephanie was ready to go. The nurses were saying hold on, let’s check in with the doctor in a minute. Stephanie had another plan in mind. Or, I should say, Irene had another plan in mind. 

The first time we saw the doctor, he was hustling in to catch the baby. It was 2:32 a.m. Close enough. Irene Ruth woke up in an unknown place.

Two months later, just as we were getting ready to bring her out into the world, to the library, to her brother’s indoor soccer games, to church (and maybe pretty soon to the church nursery), to friends’ houses, to grandparents’ houses, to see cousins, aunts, uncles, and neighbors, just as the ice and snow on the ground were melting and spring was on its way, things changed. 

Irene hasn’t done much of that. Visits have been few and far between, often masked, and always full of caution and concern over the virus that changed our lives in 2020. As of her one-year birthday on January 17, Irene has spent most of her life at home. She doesn’t know very many people.

It’s 2:45 in the morning as far as the virus is concerned. We have more cases now than ever. More deaths per day than ever. The vaccine is out there, but just out of reach. 

Irene and the rest of us are anxiously awaiting dawn to break across the cold, gray horizon and give us some sliver of hope for a new day and a new beginning in 2021.