Veterans Day 2025

 Veterans Day holds a meaning for me that is deeper than the olive drab I once wore —a meaning rooted not in foxholes and flags, but in the sterile, terrifying drama of a hospital room, exactly fifty years ago.

You see, fifty years ago, as the calendar turned to November 11th, Sue, was carrying a passenger who was under siege. Her body, with the cold efficiency of a biological weapon, was rejecting the life growing inside her. The blood types were at war. This precious, seven-weeks-premature fetus was already facing the risk of grave maladies, a medical certainty if she arrived too soon.

The afternoon of November 10, 1975, saw Sue and me in the hushed, leather-scented office of our psychiatrist. We were charting the treacherous waters of the dilemma: to terminate the pregnancy, or risk a catastrophic birth. For fifty agonizing minutes, we turned the terrifying question over and over, its edges sharp and unforgiving. We left, not with an answer, but with a paralyzing confusion that followed us home. We talked until the words dissolved into silence, and finally, we fell into a troubled, undecided sleep.

Then, at 2:00 a.m., the silence was shattered. A sharp, undeniable cramping pain. Sue was in spontaneous labor. Her body had made its final, brutal decision, forcing the battle to an immediate climax.

We moved in a blur. Clothes on, a frantic call to my dear mother to rush over and care for our two older girls, Lisa and Melissa, and then the urgent, heart-pounding dash to Valley Memorial Hospital. Sue’s obstetrician met us at the Emergency Room. One quick, grave examination, and the verdict was delivered: “Valley Memorial cannot handle this. You must head to Stanford Medical Center. Now.”

The hour-plus drive to Palo Alto was a torture chamber of worry. Every dip and turn was an appeal to fate, praying that the unthinkable—a premature baby spilling into the back seat—would not happen before we reached the sanctuary of Stanford.

The doctor who greeted us there was a man who understood crisis. He was a Vietnam Veteran, a former surgeon in a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital—a MASH unit—in Southeast Asia. He claimed the sheer, unadorned trauma of war had convinced him to trade combat injuries for the miracle of birth, switching his specialty to obstetrics upon discharge. It was a fitting presence, a veteran standing guard over a fragile life. His approach was tactical: inject medications to stall the labor. We were united in one desperate hope: to continue the pregnancy, to buy more time.

Then, at 3:00 p.m. on November 11, 1975, with the clock ticking toward the close of Veterans Day, the overhead television displayed the soothing distraction of a daytime drama, All of My Children. And there she was. Gliding across the screen: the incredible, undeniable beauty, Susan Lucci, in the role of Erica Kane.

A sudden flash of inspiration, a spark of hope amidst the fear. I turned to Sue and said, “That’s it. Let’s name her Erica.” And we did.

But the battle wasn't over. As soon as Erica arrived, she was Baptized in emergency, a silent plea for protection, and swiftly carried away. The Vietnam Vet MD roared, “Wait up! You can’t take that baby away!” But the specialized pediatrician squad, focused on saving a life, ignored the command.

Erica was rushed to an incubator, a glass-and-steel surrogate womb, where she fought for fifteen days until her tiny, imperfect lungs could finally draw a breath without aid. For weeks, her irritated vocal cords allowed her only a silent scream—she cried, but no sound escaped. Slowly, miraculously, she began to generate noise.

Now, on this very Veterans Day, 2025, that remarkable beauty—our Erica—is fifty years old. Her life, born from a medical war and a day set aside for honoring those who survived conflict, is the most wonderful, personal victory we have ever known.