Seven a.m. and I was up with the alarm. I threw on my robe and glanced in the mirror. I almost didn’t recognize myself. My face was so swollen I thought it might pop! I ran and shook my husband, still in bed. "Tim, wake up. I look like Porky Pig." Tim opened one eye. "No," he said, "you just look pregnant."

Was that all it was? I was 27 weeks along, and my body had certainly gone through lots of changes. Maybe Tim was right. But at breakfast I caught him staring at me. "You don’t look good," he said. We went to the hospital so I could get checked out. The nurse took my blood pressure and immediately admitted me for toxemia. My baby girl was in danger. I needed steroid injections to strengthen her lungs and give her the chance to survive. A fetal monitor was strapped on my belly. "Try to rest," the nurse said, and flicked off the light.

My room was quiet, except for the heartbeat of my baby. I tried to stay calm, but I felt powerless and alone.

"Save Rebecca," I prayed. I forgot everything except my prayer for my daughter’s life. In the silent darkness I felt a presence enter the room. Gentle hands took mine. Our fingers linked. Surely an angel was with me. Now I could rest.

Rebecca was born six days later, on June 13, weighing two pounds, four ounces. This June we’ll say, "Happy twenty-seventh birthday!"