by Scott Blum
“You better get dressed,” Martika urged. “The nurse said they’ll be back any minute to take her to the delivery room.”
The simple task of putting on the scrubs seemed daunting once I closed the door of the undersized bathroom. I stood frozen for several minutes while looking at the frightened boy staring back at me in the small mirror. “I don’t know what to do,” he insisted. “What am I supposed to do?”
You better get dressed, Martika’s words echoed in my brain. I pulled the cotton elastic-waisted pants over my jeans, and removing the Mother Mary T-shirt I’d worn for good luck, put on the matching V-neck.
I attempted to regain my composure before entering the room, and found Madisyn resting peacefully with her eyes shut.
“You okay?” Martika whispered while reassuringly touching my arm.
I nodded silently, fighting the wave of emotion swelling inside of me. I was overwhelmed by the idea that every moment on that important day would set the tone for how I would be as a father for the rest of my life. But the only thing I knew for sure was that I knew absolutely nothing. I had no idea what I was supposed to do and was utterly terrified by the thought of holding our baby for the first time.
Thankfully, Martika was there and would show me what to do.
6:23 A.M.
“Okay, Mama,” Dr. Carducci whispered sweetly while stroking my wife’s belly. “It’s time to get this baby out of you.”
It was nice to see a familiar face among the herd of medical personnel who had swarmed Madisyn’s bed. With razor-sharp precision, dozens of tubes and wires were disassembled and reattached to ready the wheeled hospital bed for takeoff.
Before I could say a word, my wife was being rolled down the hallway deep into the belly of the hospital, while Martika and I hurried behind. My mind dizzied as we passed through Pediatrics, Oncology, Radiology, and Pathology and finally ended up in an open corridor before a pair of ominous steel doors. The sign attached to the wall above the industrial molding stated clearly: DELIVERY ROOM 2: SISKIYOU ROOM.
“You two need to stay here while the patient is being prepared,” the nurse who’d been minding the stern of the bed “vessel” explained. “You’re welcome to make yourself comfortable in the bull pen while you wait.”
I felt helpless watching my wife being wheeled through the double doors into the brightly lit room. I looked at Martika and shrugged before following her into the “bull pen.” The glass-walled office was outfitted with three ergonomically designed workstations complete with desktop computers and gunmetal filing cabinets. We waited silently in the dimly lit room, which felt more like a generic corporate work space than anything having to do with a hospital.
6:48 A.M.
After several minutes of watching me silently pace the available floor space between cubicles, Martika called my attention to “Nurse Stern,” who was leaving the delivery room. She entered the bull pen holding a clipboard, apparently checking off last-minute preparations.
Without looking up, she uttered in a detached monotone, “I’m here for the music you want to play during the delivery.”
I handed her the disc, and she made a note on her clipboard before continuing her emotionless recital. “And to clarify, there is only one guest allowed in the delivery room. I’m assuming the father will be joining us today?”
“Excuse me?” I heard myself say as I felt the color drain from my face and onto the tiled floor. “Dr. Carducci told us that we could have two guests in the delivery room.”
“I was just in the delivery room with Dr. Carducci, and she understands that the rule is that only one guest is allowed to be present during a Cesarean section. There’s scarcely enough room for a single guest with all the personnel and equipment needed today.”
“I thought it was at the doctor’s discretion how many guests were allowed in.”
“No,” she said firmly, without hiding her annoyance. “The anesthesiologist has the final decision regarding all discretionary policies. And he was very clear today—there is only room for one guest. If there is a problem …”
“There’s not a problem,” Martika calmly interrupted. “We completely understand. I’m sure you can appreciate that tensions are high at the moment.”
“So, can I assume that the father will be joining us in the delivery room today?” the nurse snidely repeated.
By this point I was so angry that I was afraid to speak in case I said something that would get me thrown out of the hospital altogether. Thankfully, Martika replied on my behalf.
“Yes, thank you.”
The nurse turned on her heel and stomped out of the bull pen and disappeared into the delivery room.
“Can you believe that?!” I exclaimed once she was out of earshot. “If I had known you weren’t allowed in, I wouldn’t have asked you to come. I’m so sorry you had to get up so early.”
“Even if I’d known for sure that I wouldn’t be allowed in, I would’ve come anyway.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
My paralyzing anxiety about holding the newborn baby returned with a vengeance. I still didn’t know what to do, and the only way I had convinced myself it would be tolerable was if Martika was there to help. With Madisyn sedated for surgery, I was terrified that I would be expected to know what to do and nobody would help me. What if I hurt him? What if I dropped him? What would happen if I told them that I wouldn’t hold him—that I didn’t know how? Would they report me to Child Protective Services? Would they take our baby away from us if I didn’t know what to do?
How could I be a father if I didn’t even know how to hold him?
“How are you feeling?” Martika asked softly.
The jumble of emotions was so overwhelming that it was nearly impossible to pick apart.
Intimidated. Excited. Nervous. Humbled. Disconnected. Apprehensive. Enthusiastic. Terrified. Scared.
To. Death.
“I don’t know,” I finally answered. “It’s just so big.”
“It is big. You’re about to become a daddy.”
7:26 A.M.
Dr. Carducci burst through the double doors and jogged into the bull pen.
“Come on, you two,” she said excitedly. “We’re about to start. Scrub up to your elbows and put on your masks.”
“But … but the nurse said Martika wasn’t allowed in,” I stammered. “She said the anesthesiologist wouldn’t allow it.”
“I talked with him and everything’s fine. He just had a little scare yesterday when a family of five crowded a patient so he wasn’t able to see what he was doing. Just give him room, and be mindful of where you’re standing.”
We followed Dr. Carducci into the delivery room after washing our hands in a hefty stainless-steel sink operated by convenient foot pedals. Nurse Stern was right—there was very little available space left surrounding the bed, with all of the equipment and people crowding my wife.
A large sheet of blue fabric was suspended above Madisyn, which served to shield her head from the rest of her body. There was also a clear plastic tube feeding oxygen to her nose and a cumbersome plastic oximeter that pinched her index finger while feeding vital information to the grumpy anesthesiologist standing behind us.
Before taking my place beside my wife, I stood on my tiptoes to look over the blue screen and glimpsed Dr. Carducci as she positioned a shining metal scalpel over Madisyn’s lower belly. My wife’s torso had been covered with a thin yellow plastic film that curiously dehumanized the exposed flesh.
“You shouldn’t feel any pain,” said Dr. Carducci, “but you might experience some pressure and a tugging sensation once we get started. If you feel any discomfort at all, let the anesthesiologist know immediately and he’ll take care of you.”
I held on to my wife’s thumb and gently caressed her arm as the room went ominously silent. After a few seconds, a look of sheer terror came over Madisyn as her body began rocking back and forth. Her eyelids flung open wide as she gasped for air, and her face t
urned white.
“She’s feeling pain!” I exclaimed.
“I see her,” replied the anesthesiologist calmly and adjusted a few knobs on his blinking control center. Madisyn immediately relaxed and let her eyelids return to their shuttered state.
Instinctively, I stood up to see what had caused the discomfort and saw a baby’s head poking through the incision in my wife’s belly. At first it was surreal seeing a disembodied pink head floating above a sea of yellow plastic film, but when it moved and he opened his mouth, it became all too real.
7:41 A.M.
“I see him!” I whispered to Madisyn. “He’s almost out.”
“Is he okay?” she croaked, her voice barely perceptible through the anesthetic haze.
“He’s perfect,” I replied. I stood up again and peeked over the blue curtain. The tiny baby was covered in a milky viscous liquid, and the doctor was clearing his mouth with a rubber suction bulb. “Oh my God, he’s completely out now!”
“Call it!” said the male nurse assisting Dr. Carducci.
“Seven forty-one.” I recognized the voice of Nurse Stern and looked over to see her intently scribbling on her clipboard.
After his throat was clear, the newborn tried out his new lungs by letting out a faint cry that sounded more like a tentative greeting than a howl. His second “word” was much more insistent, and soon the operating room had filled with his resolute voice.
My elation was briefly tempered as I witnessed the tall male nurse unceremoniously cutting the umbilical cord after abruptly clamping it with yellow barrettes. How rude, I thought. Dr. Carducci promised me that I was going to do that! And then in a blur, the baby was whisked to the opposite end of the delivery room, where a clear acrylic tray filled with a mattress of white towels was awaiting him.
“Where’s Daddy?” a soft-voiced nurse called out. “Baby wants to meet his daddy.”
I left my wife’s side to join two nurses intently focused on the newborn. They were both busy cleaning him up and checking to make sure everything was functioning properly. When I was able to see the infant up close, I was astonished to discover how mature he was. He looked less like a newborn and more like a miniature boy, with a full head of hair, a perfect button nose, and tiny fingernails that already looked like they needed a trim.
I tentatively reached into the acrylic tray, and when my fingers lightly caressed his soft hand, an enormous surge of energy nearly knocked me onto the floor. I felt as if I had been plugged into a highvoltage electrical socket that pulsed its tingling current throughout my entire body. He must have sensed that I was about to pull away, as he wrapped his tiny hand around my right index finger and held on to me with all his might. I gasped with joy, and marveled that his fingers were collectively unable to cover a single one of my own fingernails.
In that instant, a library full of memories flowed into my soul through our connected fingers. My heart filled with a recognition that was so deep that in that moment, I was unable to remember when I hadn’t known him.
I could sense that there were others watching our interaction, and when I looked up to smile at the small audience that had gathered, I saw someone new who hadn’t been in the delivery room before.
A young girl with flowing auburn hair was smiling at me from the opposite side of the acrylic tray. She had pulled herself up by standing on the nearby stainless-steel cart and was peeking over the lid of the tray between the two nurses. Her quasi-transparent form was a clue that she wasn’t fully incarnate, although her energetic presence was so palpable that I almost reached out to touch her.
I came to see my brother, whispered Autumn. To make sure he arrived safely.
Her blue-green eyes revealed an ocean of history between her and her sibling, and I knew in my heart that she had been with him for much longer than the preceding nine months. With her thoughts she showed me images of their previous life in the spirit world together. I was humbled to witness the reunion of two souls that so dearly cared for one another.
Autumn smiled at me, before leaning over to delicately kiss the forehead of her newborn brother. His eyelids fluttered in recognition, but they remained shut under the glare of the brightly lit operating room. She then quietly whispered something in her brother’s ear … before fading away.
“Prepare the mother,” called the nurse, after expertly swaddling the newborn in a thin white blanket and matching knit cap. I needed to learn how to do that myself, but she moved too fast for me to follow all the folds and tucks.
I returned to my wife’s side just as the nurse arrived with the precious bundle. The baby instantly relaxed into the crook of his mother’s arm, and she beamed with a divine radiance that was so exquisitely gorgeous that she took my breath away. When we first met, I’d fallen in love with Madisyn the Maiden, after witnessing how her natural beauty and loving heart could fill any room she walked into. But even after years of sharing my life with her, nothing could prepare me for that moment of transcendent beauty when she first met Oliver.
In that instant I fell deeply in love with Madisyn the Mother—the mother of our child.
8:08 A.M.
“We need to let Dr. Carducci finish sewing you up,” the nurse whispered to Madisyn after she was done nursing. “It looks like your good little eater had a healthy dose of colostrum, so we need to get you into recovery while he’s in between snacks. Daddy and I will get him weighed and measured, and then we’ll all join you as soon as you’re finished—okay?”
Madisyn looked heartbroken when the nurse picked up the baby cocoon and began to walk out of the delivery room. I tenderly kissed my wife’s forehead to say goodbye before Martika and I joined the nurse who was waiting for us in the hallway.
“You should stay with the mother,” the nurse told Martika. “She’s going to need a friendly face while she’s readied for the recovery room.”
My friend smiled at the three of us before leaving us alone in the hallway and returning to the delivery room. Once again my prebirth anxiety returned, and I almost called after Martika when I realized I would finally be expected to hold the baby. My fears were confirmed as we walked through the hospital hallway.
“One of the most important things to be done immediately after the baby leaves the womb is skin-to-skin contact,” the nurse explained. “It helps keep the baby regulated to a naturally warm temperature, calms him down, and gently exposes him to normal bacteria, which will help protect him from harmful germs. Traditionally, we prefer skin-to-skin with the mother, but in the case of a C-section, when that isn’t possible, studies have shown that the father is a suitable surrogate. And besides, it’s a magnificent time to bond with your baby.”
Oh great, I thought. Now my insecurities are putting my own newborn’s life at risk.
“Okay,” the nurse said as we entered a smaller version of the bull pen. “Let’s get this little guy weighed and measured.”
She expertly unwrapped the blanket as quickly as she had put it on and placed the newborn gently onto a curved stainless-steel tray perched atop a bright red digital readout.
“Seven pounds, eight ounces,” she chirped. She quickly scribbled on her clipboard as he began to cry. “There, there,” she said, picking him up and rubbing his back, “we’re almost done, and then you can go to Daddy.”
She then laid the baby on a towel-covered bench and began measuring him with a white cloth measuring tape.
“Twenty-one inches long,” said the nurse, trying to project an air of calm while shouting above Oliver’s incessant screaming. “Okay, we’re done. You can go to Daddy as soon as he takes off his shirt.”
I allowed a flush of modesty to briefly color my cheeks, before reflecting on what Madisyn had just gone through. If she could expose the inside of her uterus to an entire roomful of people, I could easily take off my shirt in front a nurse.
After removing the blue smock, I sat in a padded chair, and she gently placed the naked baby onto my bare chest. He was still crying, but for the first
time in my life the sound didn’t bother me. I had always found the wail of a baby akin to fingernails on a chalkboard, but when my own flesh and blood was screaming within inches of my ear, I only wanted to comfort him.
“Put your arms around him and support his head,” the nurse instructed as she covered us both with a large blanket. “He wants to feel your warmth—skin-to-skin.”
I gently cradled him by crossing both my arms around his newborn body and repeatedly kissed the crown of his head. As I instinctively rocked him back and forth, his cries began to wane, and within a few short seconds he was completely silent.
“I’m turning off the lights,” whispered the nurse as she flipped the wall switch, “and I’ll go check on Mommy so you can both have some time to get to know each other.”
Once we had been left alone, I became acutely aware of his tiny heartbeat tapping rapidly next to my own. As I listened with my entire body, it was easy to lose myself in the smoothness of his flawless pink skin and the rhythm of the tiny puffs of air he expelled from his newly functioning lungs with every shallow breath.
In the bliss of that moment I became aware of a grain-sized seed of light that sprouted from our collective hearts and began to grow. The energy was warm and nurturing, and once it had enveloped us completely, it gracefully turned on its axis and continued to expand into other dimensions. The light carried us on a journey along the Möbius strip of time, which cleverly folded in on itself and revealed that our souls were eternally facing each other.
It was then that I tasted the very essence of time itself and viscerally felt a deep connection with everything that was alive, everything that had ever lived before, and everything that would eventually exist. I realized that I had never truly understood my own relationship to subsequent generations and had always coped with a mental construct of time that was fiercely limited. But by holding my newborn child in my arms, I was finally able to palpably feel the future in every one of my cells.