In the morning, at Covenant Women’s and Children’s Hospital in Lubbock, Texas, I thought I was walking into a normal day—an unforgettable day, but one we had planned for years. My wife, Yadira Serrano, and I were finally welcoming our firstborn through a scheduled C-section. We had prayed, hoped, and fought through years of IVF, and at last, the day was here. Our long-awaited dream was becoming reality. As we entered the operating room on the fourth floor, everything started off smoothly. My wife was prepped, and I was stationed by her side. To my left stood a nurse who introduced herself as Kim. She kindly told me her sole focus would be caring for our newborn after delivery. I watched her prepping near the incubator, getting everything ready for our son’s arrival. Moments later, our baby boy—Theodore, meaning “gift from God”—was born and handed to Nurse Kim. As she began to assess and care for him, things in the room suddenly shifted. I noticed my wife was bleeding heavily. Her eyes began to close. She was fading. The doctor looked over the curtain and said something I’ll never forget: “This C-section is not going well. We need to perform an emergency hysterectomy or she won’t survive.” Suddenly, the room erupted into motion. Code status was upgraded. Blood was called for. More doctors rushed in. A nurse turned to me and said, “You need to leave.” I was escorted out and placed in a hallway, helpless, with no idea whether my wife was alive or dying. As I stood there, frozen in fear, watching the chaos of blood transfusions and staff rushing in and out of the OR, Nurse Kim emerged—with my son in her arms. She began tending to Theodore, whose oxygen levels were dangerously low—hovering in the high 70s to low 80s. She calmly explained they needed to be in the 90s. I was panicked. I couldn’t focus. I was breaking down. Now here’s the thing—I’m a combat veteran. I’ve served in law enforcement. I’ve worked as a firefighter. I’ve seen life’s darkest moments. But nothing prepares you to stand between the lives of the two people you love most—your wife and your child—both in crisis. I wasn’t just lost. I was unraveling. But Nurse Kim saw me. Really saw me. She recognized I was falling apart and stepped into a role far beyond her duty. While caring for my son, she started caring for me. She redirected my panic, gently but firmly saying, “Your son needs you right now. He needs your love. He needs your skin-to-skin. You have to be present. We’ll get through this. Together.” I told her I couldn’t. I needed to know if my wife was okay. She smiled and said, “Let me check. But I need you to take care of your son right now. He needs you.” Kim sent another nurse to get an update and stayed by my side, helping me hold Theodore, guiding me on what to do, and helping me focus on being a father at a time when I didn’t know how to be anything at all. Minutes later, the update came: my wife was still in surgery but stable. Nurse Kim reassured me with a calm rooted in years of experience and a heart full of compassion. She never let go of my hand—literally or emotionally. In a moment that should’ve been the most terrifying of my life, she gave me something I didn’t know I needed: presence, peace, and purpose. She didn’t just care for my son. She rescued both of us. She transformed chaos into calm, fear into focus, and despair into one of the most sacred moments I’ve ever lived. There was no medal. No spotlight. No expectation. Just quiet strength and grace. And I believe that makes her a superhero. I truly mean this—there’s no way I can repay Nurse Kim. But I can tell her story. And I can do everything I can to make sure she’s recognized for the extraordinary nurse and human being that she is. Please, please consider Nurse Kim for the DAISY Award. She saved my son. She saved me. She deserves this honor more than I could ever put into words.