Probably the best part of my job is hearing about outstanding nurses and how they touch our lives in unforgettable ways. Just about everyone, it seems, has a poignant story or memory to share.

Last week, an emotional Gov. Gray Davis, in a speech to the California Nurses Association in Oakland, spoke of his appreciation for nurses and his gratitude for the care they gave to his mother during a time of crisis. As a journalist, I took note that I was catching a rare glimpse of the private side of our embattled governor.

Soon, my own emotions took over, and tears began welling up in my eyes as I recalled my own experiences two years ago at Kaiser Permanente's Walnut Creek Medical Center.

Our first two children, both girls, were born without complications at Kaiser's hospital in Oakland. My main concern as the due date of our third daughter approached was the prospect of driving east through the Caldecott Tunnel, because Kaiser no longer delivers babies in Oakland.

My wife, Catherine, and I set out for Walnut Creek almost nonchalantly soon after her water broke at the dinner table. After we cleared the tunnel, with the sun setting over the bay behind us, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the worst was over.

Everything seemed fine as we arrived at the hospital. It was a busy night in the labor and delivery department, where more than 3,500 babies are born every year. We had to wait for a birthing room, but that was of little immediate concern.

As some point during the evening, things began to change. I could sense the growing concern of the nurse assigned to us in a holding area down the hall from the birthing rooms. She wanted to get us into a birthing room, but she was repeatedly told to wait.

Shortly before midnight, she got on the phone and said in no uncertain terms that she could wait no longer. She was going to bring Catherine to a birthing room herself, and she ordered me to help her wheel Catherine's bed down the hall.

What happened next was almost surreal. An obstetrician took one look and barked, "C-section, stat!" In a matter of seconds, Catherine was whisked away into surgery. There was no time for explanations, or for me to scrub and remain by her side.

The next few minutes seemed like an eternity. We would learn later that there had been an abruption of the placenta, and our newborn daughter, Meryl, had lost a substantial amount of blood. When I first saw her in the neonatal intensive care unit that night, she was white as a ghost, except for a sunburst of orange radiating from the blood transfusion needle in her back.

At that point, I was beyond being scared. A nurse encouraged me to touch her and talk to her gently. I looked past all the tubes, wires and respirator and focused on her eyes, which seemed to say, "Daddy, get me out of here now!"

Meryl would spend her first nine days in the NICU, surrounded by a team of dedicated nurses, who shared our family's joy at the steady improvement in her condition. They welcomed and encouraged visits from Meryl's sisters, then aged 5 and 7.

The nurses called Meryl their little "miracle baby." I soon came to appreciate the NICU as a fortress of miracle babies, shielded from the concerns of the outside world, which at that point was reeling from the events of Sept. 11. During our stay, the only reference I heard to the fallout was some concern that the diaper supply was running low, and I offered to pick some up at Costco if necessary.

In any event, Meryl is happy and healthy. She celebrated her second birthday Sept. 19. And every time I see her smile, I'm grateful for the nurses who helped make it possible.

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