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And he was beautiful

I saw a helicopter the other day.

Nothing new there. With Warren General Hospital down the road, seeing and hearing emergency medical choppers is close to a daily event for me.

They are fascinating machines.

I’ve always thought so. I like the sounds they make and the ways they move.

I had a boy’s interest in them as fearsome weapons.

Later, it was a more scientific curiosity about aeronautics and heavier-than-air machines.

Once, I even took a ride in one. It was memorable – fun, exciting, interesting, and loud.

Helicopters fly over downtown Warren all the time. The overwhelming majority are emergency medical helicopters. The Times Observer is only a few blocks from Warren General’s helipad.

I hear them and I look. Then I watch.

For the last few years, I’ve had a much better idea of their comings and goings and destinations.

One evening, I stood on the path through Crescent Park above the helipad as a big, blue helicopter warmed up. Inside was a boy only a few hours old. I took picture after picture, not knowing what else to do, as it sat there, seemingly about to lift off, for what seemed like hours, but was probably much more like five minutes.

The boy was my son.

He wasn’t in critical danger, but doctors were concerned enough to tell us that flying him away was a good idea.

It was dark when the helicopter finally took off. I watched it for a long time. It didn’t take long before I couldn’t pick out the body of the craft. I watched the lights. When I could only hear it, I still watched. Then I couldn’t hear it, but still, I watched. Watched it taking my newborn son away from me. Not knowing what was going on. Not being able to comfort him, hold him, talk to him, keep him safe.

Not being able to do my job.

He was my son and counting on me for protection. And I had to watch as he was taken away, far from my ability to do anything.

I couldn’t even give him all of my thoughts.

My wife wasn’t standing there beside me on the path as the chopper took off.

She was sitting on a bed in her hospital room looking out the window at the same helicopter. Her mother and step-mother were keeping her upright so she could watch.

After going through childbirth, she had been told her baby had enough of a problem that he should be flown away… away from his family. Then she was told, in the interest of her health, that she should not go with him or even follow behind immediately. My wife left early the next morning, as soon as the doctors would let her.

That night, she needed me. She needed me not to stay with her, but to go do my job… our job. The one she was not able to do.

Thankfully my parents were able to drive me to Erie. I was not in any condition.

It was a quiet trip, none of the usual banter we share. They knew.

We arrived safely. As I rushed inside and gathered directions to my son, no one tried to slow me down. They understood. And the staff was completely wonderful to all of us. But they weren’t my son’s parents and no matter how many people were with him, no matter how well they treated him, whenever I left the room, I left him alone.

I spent that night sitting beside a tiny boy in a slightly larger plastic box. He was wired and tubed and blindfolded and under bright lights.

And he was beautiful.

That boy is the picture of health now, but I can’t help thinking of him so helpless, so alone, whenever I see a helicopter.

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