The Power of 8 and its Fate for my Family

A year ago this week, I was very pregnant and convinced I would deliver any day. When the phone chain started throughout my family at 9:30pm one night, everyone assumed I was in labor. Obviously in my house, we knew that wasn’t the case. I had just turned my phone off and was getting ready for bed when my husband’s rang. It was my sister. She never calls that late and usually doesn’t call at all, rather texts or emails him. I knew it was bad.

Bracing myself for the worst, I took a deep breath and answered the phone. As she proceeded to tell me what happened, I gasped for air that moments before had been readily available. Tears plummeted down my puffy face as I fell to my knees, rocking back and forth, trying to move it untrue. My husband looked on horrified.

It was my father. He’d had a seizure. His right leg had started shaking uncontrollably, mimicked by the left and soon his whole body was convulsing, eyes rolling back in his head, blood flowing profusely from his mouth.

It took five men- 2 paramedics and 3 police officers- handcuffs and a stretcher to restrain him. (Note to self, never mess with my father.) He was rushed to the hospital as my terrified and scared mother managed to dress, collect their belongings, pack a bag and drive herself to the hospital. She’s even stronger than I gave her credit for. They both are.

At this point, pregnant and emotional, that’s all I knew. I desperately wanted to hop in the car in the middle of the night and go there. Everyone pleaded with me not to. Remaining at my apartment, 90 miles away from my parents, who needed me and, I, them, was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.

It turned out he had a brain tumor and he needed surgery.

It was eight days from my due date. A number we’d grown pretty accustomed to.

When I flew to New York at 33 weeks pregnant and stayed in a hotel for two weeks because our stuff hadn’t arrived yet, we were on the 8th floor of the TriBeCa Grand. Our new doctor’s appointments were also on the 8th floor and we finally settled into our 8th floor apartment where we remain today. When we arrived at NYU hospital, Labor and Delivery was, you guessed it, the 8th floor. And our daughter, the love of our lives, was born on 5/3 at 8:38am.

Once my baby brain cleared for a moment and I realized all of the similarities about a week or so after she was born, I immediately looked back at the calendar to when we conceived. TMI, but it only took us one try, of which we weren’t even really trying, and, therefore, we know the exact date. It was, of course, August 8th. 8/8.

Not only is it incredibly clear to me that this baby was meant to be. Now reflecting on her grandfather’s life scare, it is even more apparent that she’s here for a reason.

Those next two weeks (she was late), post-seizure and pre-baby, were incredibly scary. But my dad kept saying he was holding out for his “grand girl”. He has two grandsons already, loves his boys immensely and is the best grandfather to them. But, as soon as he found out we were expecting, he wished for a girl.

The thought of him leaving just days before being granted that gift was unimaginable. Too unimaginable apparently. Weak and weary and against everyone’s better judgement, my dad made his way to my hospital room that morning to greet his girls.

I’ve never been more overwhelmed with love and gratitude. It was the most magical day. One, many of us feared, just days before, would be bittersweet.

My dad went on to have brain surgery three weeks after my daughter was born. We were there for it and, thankfully, he came through beautifully, better than the surgeon, a forty-year veteran, had ever seen.

We weren’t surprised. He had his grand girl to get back to.

Also, not surprisingly, he was in Suite 404. You don’t have to be a math major to know what that adds up to. Some will cite coincidence, others will say it’s exaggerated or embellished, many may call me sappy or hokey for believing in all of it. I say you have to believe in something. And, beyond my father and my daughter, I now believe in the power of 8 and it’s fate for my family.