the unwritable song

 So, I've written and released glorified roughs 12 songs on my new album, "Sojourner".  As I have previously stated, the songs are all about experiences that have ghanged and molded me into the man I am today.

But there was one song that no matter how I tried to write it, I just couldn't get it right.  Short of my death almost two years ago, this is the single most life changing thing that has ever happened to me, so instead of writing the unwritable song, I'll just tell you the story.

It's January 1, 1991.  My family at the time consisted of my wife, Debi, and our 3 year old son, Ian.  Just before Christmas, we moved into a larger house in Orange, California.  The larger house was literally 25 feet from our current domecile in a condo complex near the corner of Katella Avenue and Tustin Avenue, behind the REgal Lanes Bowling alley (which is now part of Toyota of Orange)  We had asked my band's manager, Marci, to move in and help offset the cost of the bigger house, and Marci came down with a friend, Deborah Roberts. who was a nurse in the Sacramento area.  The only other big thing happening then was that my wife was about 24 weeks pregnant with our second child, Stephen Michael Miller.  Our first pregnancy was textbook- super boring as far as pregnancies go- the kind you want to have.

We were watching the Rose Bowl Parade in our jammies that morning when just after breakfast, my wife stepped out to use the restroom.  There was a "yelp" from the bathroom, and when my wife came out of the bathroom, she was pale as a sheet.

"I.....uh......I think I'm spotting." she says.

Our houseguest, Deborah the nurse says, "it's probably nothing.  Let me have a look." she says, and she and my wife go into the bathroom.

Deborah the nurse if the first one out the door.  She has a weird look on her face.  My wife come out next, and Nurse Deborah says, "I think you better call 911."

In a complete blur of action, Marci and Deborah say, "We've got Ian.  You guys head to the E.R." and we were on our way.  Marci and Deborah turned on "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turles" for Ian and he was completely oblivious to the fact that Mom and I had left.

We got to the hospital around 10:30 am, and they immediately admitted her for pre-term labor and started feeding her Magnesium Sulfate and Terbutaline to try and stop the labor.  It worked for a few minutes at a time, and eventually everything calmed down and the labor stopped.  Deb spent most of the day sleeping, and I did the only thing I could think of- pray.  Hard.

At about 9:30pm the contractions started up again, and they started running about 2 minutes apart.  Doctors and nurses are running around, trying everything they could do to stop the labor again.  This went on for about 3 hours, and shortly after midnight,  the OB and nurses left the room for about 5 minutes, and that's when it went bad.  Deb started contracting hard and at intervals around 20 seconds.  I hit the call light in the room, and waited.  No one came.  At about 1AM on January 2, 1991, Stephen was born- alive and crying.  He was only about 24 weeks along, and was so tiny......I opened the door to the room, stuck my head out into the hallway and yelled, "Could use a little help here!".  When the nurses got into the room, I had Stephen lying next to his mom and I was trying to suction the mucus out of his mouth and nose.  (Yes, I knew what to do)

Deb wanted to see him, and the nurses that came in showed him to her before they whisked him down to the NICU.  They cleaned Deb up and took both of us to Stephen's crib-side.  

When we got into the room, it became obvious that STephen was in real trouble.  HE jawlines had faint blue lines running into his neck and his chest.  He was too small to intubate, so they had an O2 canula on him.  He would alternate between crying and gasping for air, writhing around in obvious discomfort.  I've seen a few babies in my life with low APGARs, but every time you could literally see them improve- Stephen wasn't doing that.  His crying jags were getting shorter and it seemed like he was giving up.   My wife wasn't saying a word- she knew what was happening. 

"I'm so sorry.  He doesn't have much time." a nurse said to me, sensing that the question was coming.

"Is there any part of him that could be donated?" I ask, fighting back tears.

"I'm afraid not.  He's just too little."

At this point a nurse began singing "Rock a bye, baby" very softly.  My wife joined in.  The none of the nurses asked if we would like it if they baptized him.  We said "yes" dumbly, and one of the nurses baptized him.  After that, we sang to him more, and the nurses were keeping other visiting parents away,  

After a few hours, around 6am, Stephen Michael Miller slipped away, quietly and peacefully in his mother's arms. Deb couldn't talk and just slipped into a catatonic state that lasted almost 3 months.

My immediate reaction was anger.  So.  Much.  Anger.  While driving home from the hospital, I got into a knock-down drag-out screaming match with God.  I told him I hated Him, and how dare He do this to me?  I had been 100% faithful and had put the whole thing in God's hands, and He failed me.  He lied to me.  He ripped my own flesh from me and from my wife and my son, and there was no fucking way I would ever be caught dead worshipping Him.  I was completely and irrevocably done with God and the whole thing.   Many of my friends offered condolences like, "Well, there was probably something wrong with him..." and other platitudes which did nothing but make me angrier.

72 hours later, we are getting ready to go to the funeral services at Memory Gardens in Brea, California.  God and I are still not on speaking terms, and I'm in the shower, going over all the things I was going to say at the funeral. 

And that's when it happened.  I literally felt  two hands land on my shoulders, and in my left ear I "heard" God's voice. 

"Shhh.  I've got you.  I'm back."

A wave of impenetrable grief swept over me, and I literally went to my knees.  I just sat there, water hitting all over me, and I'm sobbing.  My thoughts are all jumbled, and nothing makes sense.

"I know you're mad at me right now, and we will work that out, but right now, I need you to be me to your wife.  She is in unsurmountable pain right now, and you've been so wrapped up in your anger that she feels completely alone.  You need to be there for her." the voice said.  

I'd like to say that I capitulated right then and there, but I didn't.  I was still so angry, and having that grief sweep over me made me angrier.  

"How dare you tell me what I should do?  Where were you when I needed you?  I pleaded with you- in your son's name - to spare my child, and you didn't."

"He's here now, and I intend to take care of him for you." God said.  I hadn't considered that.  In the days to come, God and I had many, MANY conversations about this, and we actually still have them.  I can't say that I'm over it, but I have learned to live with it.  The old adage, "Man is not meant to bury his children" is an absolutely true statement.

I've tried and tried to put this to song, and it just won't allow it.  I honestly don't know why, and I'm not comfortable leaving that story out, but it is what it is.