The Clock Strikes Midnight on April 8, 2015
I sit beside my 13-year-old daughter, watching as wires and leads cover her fragile body. A dim light above her bed casts soft shadows over her sunken eyes, while the quiet hum of the hospital ward lingers in the background. Hours have passed, and at last, she sleeps.
She wears a simple red t-shirt, her frail arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed giraffe—clutching it like a child seeking comfort. Just months ago, she was a strong, determined young girl. Now, she seems so small, so vulnerable. The weight loss crept in slowly, first becoming undeniable around Christmas of 2014.
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer, pleading for protection, for strength—anything to keep her safe.
When a child discovers their passion at a young age, it’s undeniable.
At just four years old, my daughter saw an ad for The Wizard of Oz and her eyes lit up.
"Can we go see it?" she asked eagerly.
The ad wasn’t for a performance—it was for auditions.
"This is for tryouts," I told her.
"Can I try out?" she pleaded.
From the moment she stepped into that theater, she was hooked. Every day, she would leap from the car and race inside, radiating joy. I expected the excitement to fade as rehearsals grew longer and more demanding, but by each week, she was spending over four hours a day with people she had just met—and she was happier than ever. At only five, she was the youngest in the cast, allowed to participate by special exception.
On opening night, I worked backstage, watching her from the wings as she stood waiting for her first number. Hands clasped in a prayer position, dressed in the tiniest, most adorable costume. And then—she was gone.
I held my breath, nervous and excited. Moments later, she exited the stage, pumped her fist, and flashed the most radiant smile. At that moment, I knew she had the bug. The passion only grew stronger.
But now…where had that smile gone?
THE YELLOW FLASHING LIGHT JUST WENT OFF (12:10 AM)
The nurse enters, resetting the heart rate monitor, lowering it from 50 BPM to 46. She reassures me—it’s common for a child admitted with anorexia.
But I know.
The signs had been there. The changes started in early January 2015. Her body was shrinking before my eyes. She had missed her period. She barely ate, always telling me she already had. She tried to hide it with clothes that hung looser each day.
I stare at her now, her frail body lying still, and I feel a chasm between us—one not of love but of understanding. We couldn’t be more different. I am competitive; she is not. I am a jock; she is an artist. I see the world through logic; she feels it through emotion. I love the outdoors; she loathes the sun. But there was always one thing that brought us together—adventure.
She loved tubing behind the boat, wedged between her older cousins, screaming, "Faster, faster!" Her laughter, so pure, so infectious, would echo over the waves as they bounced through the air. I can still see that smile, one that is now so rare, so forced.
I am startled. The nurse, calm but focused, lowers the monitor to 44 BPM.
I can’t sleep. My laptop is open, glowing in the dim hospital room, but I can’t process anything except the shallow rise and fall of her chest. I am more alone than I have ever felt. For the past ten and a half years, I’ve had her by my side – just the two of us – 50% of the time since the divorce.
Now, I am powerless.
Winter memories flood my mind. Our little hill in front of the house where we would bundle up in our snow gear and carve out sledding paths. The small slope felt like a mountain to her. As she got older, we graduated to the big hill at the church around the corner. I would wrap my legs around her in the plastic sled, securing her in my arms as we barreled down, rolling to the side in fits of laughter. I would give anything to hear that laugh again
THE YELLOW FLASHING LIGHT JUST WENT OFF, AGAIN (1:15 AM)
THE YELLOW FLASHING LIGHT JUST WENT OFF, AGAIN (1:35 AM)
The nurse’s face shifts. Something is different. Her respiratory rate holds at 15 breaths per minute, but the alarm is reset to 43 BPM.
Outside the room, there’s a quiet commotion. A doctor arrives. I know what my gut is telling me. And my gut is never wrong.
THE YELLOW FLASHING LIGHT JUST WENT OFF, AGAIN (1:54 AM)
Nineteen minutes later, she hits 43 BPM. The monitor is lowered again—to 41 BPM. My heart is racing as hers slows. Something is very wrong.
Her first middle school play comes to mind. She sang, but I could tell she was holding back.
That night in the car, she asked me, "What did you think?"
"You held back," I said.
The next night, she let go. The Sour Kangaroo came to life, and I watched in awe. From then on, our car became a concert hall filled with her voice. Click here for the video.
Will I ever hear that voice again?
THE YELLOW FLASHING LIGHT JUST WENT OFF, AGAIN (2:00 AM)
Six minutes. That’s all it took to drop to 41 BPM. Her breathing slows to 12 breaths per minute. The tension outside the room thickens. More staff appear. A doctor examines her, then steps out.
I follow, needing answers: Is she going to be okay?
The response shatters me: "I hope so."
Hope? That’s all they can give me?
Then—
THE RED LIGHT WENT OFF (2:19 AM)
No one prepared me for this. No alarms sounded in my heart for this moment.
Her heart rate dips below 40 BPM. Another reset—to 37. The nurses’ expressions betray them. We are in trouble. A new cart appears outside the door. I don’t ask, but I know.
I put my hand beneath her nose, desperate to feel her breath.
Is she going to make it?
THE FINAL RED LIGHT WENT OFF (5:00 AM)
She bottoms out at 36 BPM.
I have never felt so helpless.
I want to shake her awake. I want to see those blue eyes flicker open. I want to tell her it’s over, she’s safe.
I pray. Please, save my little girl. Over and over.
And then—at 6:00 AM—she wakes up.
She is awake. She is alive.
Two months earlier, in a recording studio, she chose to sing On My Own from Les Misérables. The engineer was skeptical. But as she sang, the sound waves told a different story. He turned to me and said, "She has a gift." Click here for the video.
Was that gift about to be extinguished? Was I about to be on my own?
This was the day that broke me.
I’ve endured injuries as an athlete, the abrupt end of my professional baseball career, the unraveling of my marriage, and the closing chapter of my college coaching career. Through it all, I never shattered. I was an emotional machine—built to take the hit, adjust, and push forward. That was my process: define the problem, find the solution, and fix it.
That was my life. But this… this was different.
This wasn’t my battle to fight. I couldn’t train harder. I couldn’t outwork the problem. I couldn’t even protect her. I was powerless—watching my little girl slip away, moment by moment, breath by breath. The minutes dragged, stretching into eternity. Each flicker of a monitor, each hushed conversation outside the room, chipped away at me in a way I had never known.
This was the longest night of my life.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never be the same.
The moment she was born, I understood I was responsible for her—for always. Every parent knows that feeling. But some… some know the deeper, darker truth. The unbearable reality of watching your child fade. The helplessness. The terror.
Some know what it is to lose a child.
And some know what it is to come unbearably close.