Thread by @LukeEpplin

All right, here's the wild story of the birth of my daughter, Ava. My wife started going into labor on Friday, so we spent that night at a hospital in Upper Manhattan. I slept little that night and then not at all the next day. Finally, on Saturday night I dozed on a couch.

I was awoken at four in the morning today (Sunday) to active labor. I got on my feet, threw on my clothes, and then was thrust in the middle of the action. Whether because of exhaustion, lack of food, or having just gotten up, I don't remember anything else. I fainted.

When I woke up, I was on the floor, a pool of blood oozing from the back of my head. I'd hit my head on the edge of a metal table as I fell and cut a gash in it. It was serious. They called the EMTs, had a stretcher come up and whisked me to the emergency room.

Originally, they were going to give me a CT scan, which means that I would've missed the birth of Ava. Luckily, they checked me out, did some tests, treated the wound, and then plugged six staples into my skull. It took maybe an hour. I was then free to go.

This hospital was massive--more than a city block, connected by tunnels. We were on the opposite end. A nurse walked me down numerous hallways, through various departments, and then got called back for an emergency. She gave me some quick directions and sent me on my way.

I thought I followed them correctly, got an elevator to the 10th floor, and ended up in a bone marrow center. Granted, I'm in the clothes I slept in, with a massive white bandage wrapped around my head, like something you'd see in a World War I movie.

I flagged down a nurse and sent rather frantically, "My wife is in labor! I need to find her!" She took one look at me and said, "I think you need to see security." I said I didn't have time, but she escorted me out and firmly but politely dropped me off with a guard.

I told him the same thing: "My wife is in labor!" Again, he looked at me, bandage and all, patient tag on my wrist, and said, "Sir, I'm gonna need to see some discharge papers." I had no ID, no visitor's badge, nothing. Suddenly, it dawned on me: I'm in trouble.

So I slowed down, tried to explain that I'd fainted while my wife went into labor, cut a gash into my head, got it treated, and then got lost. He was *very* skeptical. But he let me leave at least. On the street, no coat on, I rushed around until I found a parking valet.

This time, I didn't even try to explain. I simply asked where the maternity wing was, he said two blocks down, and I sprinted in my bandages and slippers. Again, my old nemesis greeted me: security. I'd learned at least that I had to explain everything first.

I told him my wife was in labor on the 10th floor, gave him her name, and he called up. They took a picture of me for a new badge and I'm staring wild-eyed into the camera with my head wrapped. My last name is spelled Epplyn. It was perfect.

I dashed into the maternity ward, the attendant looked at me, and said, "Oh, you're the guy everyone's talking about." I came back to my daughter not yet born. My wife asked how it went. I said, "I'll tell you later." An hour later, this photo was taken.

I should mention that I can't take off my head bandages until tomorrow morning, so every picture of me during Ava's first day on Earth looks like this. I hope that she has a good sense of humor about it some day.