July 25. The second morning.

Delirious with joy and lack of sleep, I stumbled out of NYU to find non-hospital coffee for Carol and myself.

I’m high on life. Everything is perfect. My wife is safe and healthy. My son is finally here. And amazing.

I’m smiling and nodding a greeting to everyone I come across. Only later did I figure out this was crazy.

There was a father in Startbucks with his two young daughters. I smile and nod. He grimaces the rhetorical NYC “what’s your problem, buddy?”

I’m two days unshowered and unshaved, with the hair to prove it. I’m tired to the point of easily mistaking it for drunkenness. There’s a good chance I smell, and I’m obviously wearing a hospital bracelet. Bellevue, with historical reputation for treating severe mental illness, is within an easy walk. I can’t imagine what he thought of me.

Standing in line to pick up our coffee, he’s next to me. He looks at me and smiles, “congratulations.”