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SALT LAKE CITY — My eldest daughter, Myelda, sent a very emphatic text at 6:30 a.m. Saturday announcing that she was going into labor. Many exclamation marks were used.
It was a day soon to be all about Myelda and her baby, but I considered it my big day as well. It was a test of my resolve to be a better man — and little did I know what a test it would be.
Had my daughter gone into labor three months ago, I may have let my wife take charge, joining her at the hospital at a more decent hour — like noon or 3 p.m.
But I am the prodigal dad, the one that came back from, well, from wherever or whatever was keeping me firmly cemented into mediocre guy status. I jumped — er, rolled — OK, allowed myself to be pushed out of bed and into the car.
I have never been present for a birthing, except for classic screenings of “Gone with the Wind” and “Alien” — which my wife of 15 years says does not count.
I have never been present for a birthing, except for classic screenings of “Gone with the Wind” and “Alien” — which my wife of 15 years says does not count.
However, I have nine sisters, several mothers, a wife and stepdaughters, so, as you would expect, I have heard much on the subject. Oddly enough, that morning I felt prepared, and generally speaking I was.
What I was not prepared for was the fact that Myelda was giving birth in room 105, a room we knew too well — the same room of the hospital in which my son lost his own newborn baby several weeks before.
Once my wife and I realized where we were, we steadied ourselves. There was a point in all the organized hubbub that I wanted to yell out, “Just a minute, here! Aren’t any of you aware that we have been here before and everything was not OK? A baby was born and later died here. His name was Christian Mark.”
But the feeling subsided when I realized my wife was feeling the loss, too, and we commiserated quietly, briefly together. Then we prepared ourselves so that I could get started doing my job. My job was to fix things.
The actual birthing, for me, was a breeze. Being the grandpa doesn’t have any real requirements except praising the one giving birth after she has done well, over and over again, for hours. Even the nurses seemed like cheerleaders with matching uniforms and tennies.
Related:
Never too late: The story of the 'Prodigal Dad'
I came to be a father late in life: it was just a little over a month ago. I remember it well because it was the same day my newest grandchild died.Of course, the doctor went right on about his business. The 12 dancing nurses did their job as well. The respiratory parade and the anesthesiologists in convention went about their work as usual, focusing on the task at hand like all professionals should.
Even Myelda, in her second hour of labor was all business as she ordered extra pepper jack cheese on her hospital lunch sandwich — the eye of the storm with everything circling around her.
At some point I had to sit down. Cheering is hard work, and cheering was all I could do. A dad’s job is to fix things, but there, in that room, there was nothing I could fix.
I ended up positioning myself strategically, just so, by the side of the bed, which enabled me to verify that Myelda was the real mother but not a stitch more.
My new grandson, whose name sounds like bug repellent, was born small, white-ish blue, and was not breathing well — none of which I could fix.
How quickly we sobered, we cheerleaders.
Fortunately, someone in the professional crowd had anticipated Buggy’s breathing problems. The respiratory committee, theretofore on standby, quickly did their job fixing what they could, and none too gently for my taste.
I am going to have to be a good dad and a good man without fixing things this time — which has thrown me for a loop and placed me right out of my element.
When they were through, Buggy was wrapped in swaddling clothes lying by grandma. His mother, who was alternatively dozing and slurping a kiwi mango slushy, was out cold before the pepper jack sandwich arrived.
My wife and I sat on the foldout couch feeling a little emotional, and things getting emotional is the usual cue for Superdad to come out of the woodwork. But, again, there was nothing I could fix.
Buggy will be cared for by my daughter who doesn’t have a permanent address, whose environment my wife and I worry about continually. This baby is starting out with strikes against him regardless of how good a mother Myelda proves to be.
And while this birth has a happy outcome, I have a daughter-in-law in her apartment packing up clothes for her baby boy that never made it home to see his crib, whose grave we will decorate this weekend.
I can’t fix any of that. I am going to have to be a good dad and a good man without fixing things this time — which has thrown me for a loop and placed me right out of my element.
Fortunately I am secure on my religion's plan of salvation, which is doctrine that tells us what happens to spirits, even babies, when things don’t go well with their bodies — when things go bad enough that only one Father can fix them, and it’s not me.
Meanwhile, Myelda is feeling better and so is the baby, and all is well in room 105 this time around.
Happy Birthday, Buggy. May you grow up to be every bit as charming and inconvenient as your mother. And remember that I will be around to fix things for you (or not) when you need it.
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Main photo: The result of a morning of labor (Photo: Davison Cheney)
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*Davison writes about things he is familiar with: things like raising children, taking children to therapy, bailing children out of trouble, and trying not to beat up parents of other children when they yell at his children for not getting the basketball to their children. Read more from Davison at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com.**
