On a warm afternoon one month before her due date, my wife came through the door and told me she thought her water broke. In the panic that ensued, one thought was clear: get to the hospital. 

For us, that meant the Sutter Santa Rosa Regional Hospital, located next to the Luther Burbank Center for the Arts on Mark West Springs Road. We arrived with bags in hand and worried looks on faces, were shown to a room and quickly got confirmation that yes, the water had broken. It felt like that moment when the safety bars click and the roller coaster starts moving. We didn’t realize yet that the ride would last for 10 days.

Without getting into the details, the first 24 hours were the longest of our lives, and ended with surgery to deliver the baby. It occurs to me now that throughout this first leg of the journey, I never felt scared. The nurses and doctors who held our hands through the process always made sure we were as comfortable as possible, both physically and emotionally. 

That care continued after the birth, when my wife recovered and the baby was transferred to the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). For nine days, we lived at the hospital. In addition to the 24-hour care that made sure our baby thrived, he received blue light treatment for jaundice. This begs the question, “How did they figure out that blue light exposure cures jaundice?” 

Even with restrictions on visitors and other Covid-related precautions, we never felt isolated mentally. The staff became our extended family for that time. They cheered for my wife when she took her first walk after surgery, told us all the little baby things we missed while we slept at night and shared stories that we still talk about today. 

To all the staff at Sutter and all the hospitals who’ve done so much for so many, especially during the pandemic, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. –C.S.

Earlier this year, my partner and I discovered a cheap and easy way to explore Santa Rosa, a city of around 180,000 which claims to be “Out there. In the middle of everything.”

Legally speaking, Santa Rosa is an island in the middle of the “unincorporated” lands governed by the county government. The goal of our self-assigned, totally arbitrary project is to walk the perimeter of this legally-defined island, shaped by decades of behind-the-scenes negotiations between various political forces.

Our mission was partially inspired by an essay author Christina Nichol wrote about her experience during and after the October 2017 wildfires. The piece starts by reflecting on the difficulty humans have mentally grasping the scale of climate change and closes with an introduction to the “poetic acts” of Alejandro Jodorowsky, a Chilean French poet, filmmaker and therapist.  

As one of their poetic endeavors, Jodorowsky and an accomplice walked in a straight line across their city, ignoring all of the obstacles along their chosen path. When they reached a house, they explained their mission to the occupant and were allowed to pass through. 

As the world spirals out of control, Jodorowsky’s random, poetic missions become increasingly appealing. 

On our most recent walk, we passed through a neighborhood just east of Santa Rosa Avenue where multiple roads dead-end onto chain link fences blocking empty fields. 

In one of these lush, unkempt fields, a black office chair was set up facing Taylor Mountain. A few hundred feet in front of the chair, a couple played fetch with a dog. The view was stunning and enhanced by a feeling that we had discovered some neighborhood secret.

Whenever we return home after one of these walks, I feel accomplished and refreshed: I did something and I shared the experience with someone. 

It’s a nice feeling, and I recommend chasing it with someone you love. (Disclosure: I am not a poet or a therapist.) — W.C.