Learning to Cry (2 page)

Father

June 4, 1994. It seems that the day my daughter was born is a good place to start, since the primary focus of this story will be on her. I don’t think you can say she will be alone, though, at least not literally. When you tell a story about an individual, you open up the history of an entire family. Families are more intertwined than the intricate weavings of the most elaborate spider webs. The secrets and inner knowledge that individuals hold against one another are better data profiles than the CIA has on Osama Bin Laden. This may not be an appropriate comparison because the CIA has been looking for Bin Laden for years now and can’t track him down.  Our government agencies do have their issues, almost as many as teenagers themselves.

I should note for the record, June 4, 1994, is not actually the day my daughter was born. To be specific, this is the day before she was born. June 4, 1994, was, simply put, the beginning. It was the day my then wife received the phone call. The baby was not due for a few weeks. The doctor phoned and informed Cheryl that some of her blood work came back and there were some concerning results. The doctor wanted her at the hospital as soon as possible. My now ex-wife’s response had been to ask if she could set up an appointment in a few days, not thinking it was anything serious. Her face drained of blood and became ashen when the doctor told her she needed to come in immediately. The doctor was anxious and urgently encouraged her to head to the hospital within the hour.

I was not home at the time of the dreaded conversation. Having been a routine day before the disturbance erupted, I was working. Cheryl had only recently begun her maternity leave. She had wanted to wait as long as possible before eating away at the precious little time off her company allowed. What is the deal with companies in society? Are they growing more callous in general, or has it always been this way, and I am just now becoming aware of the dilemma. Sure they will throw you a baby shower and buy you a few gifts with the money some of your officemates pooled together, but time off for a newborn is measured in days. How long does it take to get adjusted to your first-born child? Apparently it takes no more than six to eight weeks unless you choose to use your vacation time, as well. Corporate America is a callous, cold-hearted, bureaucratic steel and iron coffin, in my opinion. You go there to work and, then, die slowly, one day at a time.

My hysterical ex-wife phoned me in a panic. She was frantic as she hurriedly explained her dictated instructions. I rushed out of the office when she informed me of the situation, jumped in my car, and headed home to pick her up. My boss at the time was understanding, being a father of four children himself, so it wasn’t a big deal when I headed out. I was only taking a few days off, regardless of when the baby came. Fathers apparently need very little bonding with a newborn and nowhere near the graciously allowed time a mother is offered. A father’s time off can usually be measured in a few days at best, as if that makes any sense.

When I arrived, Cheryl was near hysterics. You have to understand that throughout the pregnancy our unborn daughter had developed every disease imaginable. The routine went like this: We would go in for an appointment to see the doctor. There would be the standard tests that all mothers and unborn babies endure. We would, then, head home, and the anticipatory mom-to-be would read up on the test’s actual purpose. Before the sun set, she would have herself convinced the baby was suffering from water on the brain, malformed facial features, or would not be able to walk or talk or see or hear or whatever else could possibly go wrong.

This would last a few days until the results were returned, and we would find out all was normal. Now that the doctor was calling with a valid concern, the situation was bordering on mass hysteria. We threw some stuff in a bag and headed off to the hospital. This was not exactly the way we planned the birthing process. What happened to breathing and coaching your way through pain? Where were the pillows and that nice lady nurse who was calm, collected, and telling us everything would be ok? This was not what we had signed on for.

Now that I speak these words, and since this is a reflective story from a historical perspective, I can understand the meaning behind the phrase: does anyone ever really know what they are signing up for when they have kids? I am going to guess the answer for 99 percent of us would be no. If we did there might be far fewer kids in the world today. Not that my children would be in that group. Despite the trials and suffering, the joy and happiness has far outweighed anything my simple mind could have fathomed. That is saying a lot, as you will see once we move further ahead.

At the time we lived in a suburb on the far eastern side of Chicago, so our drive to the hospital took approximately one hour. It was a frantic 60 minutes, spent mostly in silence. Cheryl continually rubbed her stomach in a circular motion as if she were trying to ease the pain the baby might already be feeling. Mothers, both good and bad, hold an incredibly unique connection with a child. The bond of carrying a living person inside of you is something that I cannot fathom. While I understand the mechanics of the gestation process, I cannot for the life of me comprehend how this miracle takes place. It just doesn’t seem logical.

We arrived out front of Northwestern Memorial Hospital and quickly moved up several floors until we reached the maternity level. We had abruptly halted our car in the temporary parking spot. My plan was to move the vehicle once we were settled and received the details of what we were facing. Interestingly, we didn’t have to wait long. We were frantically admitted. Hospital gowns were donned, and the appropriate position on the hospital bed was secured—all while I sat in the hard vinyl chair, waiting impatiently for the news.

The doctor immediately came to update us on what we were facing and the options we had. At the time, I remember thinking how nice it would have been to be kept waiting. I realize we all complain about the hours spent, wasted in a waiting room at a doctor’s office.  It’s actually more perplexing when they see you at once. It does nothing to abate your anxiety level. In truth, it does the exact opposite. I found myself fidgeting with anticipation of the possibilities that might be presented to us.

The diagnosis was an escalating level of preeclampsia, a condition in pregnancy that causes dangerously high blood pressure in the mother. It’s a complication that affects between 5 percent and 8 percent of pregnant women.  The biggest issue – along with the preeclampsia, which was growing severe – was that my ex’s platelets were extremely low. The doctor was concerned about her losing too much blood during birth. I looked at both of them, a little dumbfounded. My role in this process was coach. I was not good at reading the books; I didn’t really know the details. I had always figured that things would just work out fine. I never claimed to be the smartest guy in the shed, but I was supportive.

The first step was taking all of the tests again -- check the final blood and sugar levels to see where things currently stood. We would, then, make the decision on whether the baby should be delivered that night. At this news, I thought Cheryl might come unglued. She was a strong woman. If we face facts, she was a little too strong as I would find out later in life. At this specific moment, though, she could no longer hold it together. The baby was not full term yet. What did that mean? The lungs are the last to develop. Would the baby be placed in an incubator and held at the hospital? Of course, none of this could be answered. We were left to mull things over by ourselves as the nurses poked and prodded, every once in a while taking what they needed of the precious bodily fluids as they filled vial after vial with my ex-wife’s blood.

Time is a strange thing. It consistently ticks by not moving any faster or any slower, no matter the situation. It is an oddity, then, when you are on vacation, how quickly time flitters by. Before you know it, you are on your way home. That weekend trip to the wine country that was planned for a few months flies onward. The next thing you know you are driving through traffic with two cases of cabernet in your trunk quicker than you can blink an eye, somehow on your way back to four walls of sanctuary surrounded by a white picket fence.

In other situations, time seems to creep, almost to the point where you can hear yourself breathing. The slow inhale as your lungs expand, sifting the oxygen, letting the life-giving force filter its way through your body. You, then, feel the exhale as the unneeded remnants are expunged from your nostrils in the rhythmic cycle-of-the-life enabling process. Over and over again it happens, and you find yourself counting how long of a delay there is between breaths. How long is the air normally held inside before it is exhaled? How many breaths does a person take in a minute or an hour? Slowly, time edges onward as you await news that could devastate your being. Potentially changing who and what you might ever become. How quickly can your hopes and dreams die prematurely?

Finally, the doctor entered in her sterile white coat and elitist clipboard. Why the hell do all doctors feel the need to talk with a clipboard in their hand? When they are going through medical school and their residencies, do they somehow grow so fond of the manmade device that it warps into an appendage of comfort? Something as heavily relied upon as an arm or a leg or even an eye. She stood before us, and the monotonous breathing process stopped. Suddenly, I went from counting breaths to not breathing at all. It felt as though I didn’t even need to breathe. I had now been given a waiver to never breathe again. I could sit there for hours and stoically listen as I awaited the outcome of those vaunted tests, never once pausing for a simple breath.

The doctor informed us there was nothing wrong at this point, and the tests were all coming back normal. What the hell is it with doctors anyway? One minute they tell you everything in life is wrong, your world might be imploding upon itself, and the next minute they tell you all is well. Do they do this purposely? Is it some need for reassurance and love that causes them to tear you down only to vault you back to the ceiling within the same arena? I didn’t really care. We were breathing again. We were feeling again. I felt my body explode as I let out a long sigh and resumed the cycle of breathing I had stopped only a few seconds before. Our child, whom we had not even met, had survived her first roadblock. Somehow, miraculously our baby had made it out the other side unscathed. We were both excited and ready to head home.

With doctors nothing is ever really simple. It isn’t black or white, right or wrong. It is always some area of grey. Although the tests were looking good, the doctor wanted to keep us overnight, monitoring vital signs to ensure that nothing escalated again. It was only a precaution, but the doctor felt it was needed. At that point who cared? We were reluctant, yet fine with the decision, and now the logistics needed to be worked out.

I headed down to finally check on our car, which luckily was still there and not even ticketed. I drove home, picked up some items that we had forgotten and headed back as quickly as possible. My ex-wife was required to stay the night, and I, as her partner, was asked very politely by the mom-to-be if I would stay, as well. I agreed as you might expect, but in no way was I looking forward to sleeping on the cot the nursing staff had so happily provided. It wasn’t even a cot really. It was more of a faded pinkish chair that reclined to an almost prone position, but not quite.

Since it was getting late and I was exhausted from the day’s activities, I had no issue going to sleep or watching TV for a little while. Either one was fine with me. I had managed to make it back, park the car, and was sitting in my vinyl bed for the evening. Unfortunately, Cheryl had developed a headache from the stress, and with her headaches came side effects. She had migraines at times, and I was hoping this would not turn the night into a more unmanageable situation than it already was. Damn, that sounded selfish, didn’t it?

The TV was hurting her eyes, and she asked me to turn it off. In the same breath, she asked me not to leave or fall asleep.  She wanted to rest but not be disturbed. I, admittedly, have a snoring problem which can bother the neighbors if they don’t take proper precautions, such as earplugs or sleeping pills for anyone within a few hundred feet. I listened to her request, but in practical terms I had no idea how to follow through. I am one of those people whose eyelids fall shut with the dimming of the lights as my body goes horizontal.

Do you remember those dolls with the eyelids that moved as the body moved? When the doll was standing upright the eyelids were open, and the little plastic replica was awake. When the doll was horizontal the eyes were closed, and the little baby was fast asleep. You have just described me in the flesh. While I might not be manufactured from plastic and dye, I was none-the-less made from the same mold. It was impossible for me to stay awake in a dark room with no TV while sticking, I mean sitting, in my plastic chair/cot.

If you want me to chop wood, just ask. If the trash is overflowing and needs to be liberated from its container, no problem. If you need a light bulb changed or the toilet doesn’t work or etc., etc., I am your man. If you need somebody to sit in the dark and stay awake for a few hours with no form of outside stimulus, please do not call me. I might give it my best shot, but my best shot is about as likely to work as killing an elephant with a BB gun, assuming you shot the gun backwards, hoping it would travel around the world and hit the beast on the other side. I just couldn’t do it.

So try as I might, within a few short minutes I was out, and the orchestral symphony began drifting from my mouth and nostrils. It grew in strength and volume with each passing minute. My other great flaw, or strength, depending on how you look it at, is my ability to sleep very soundly. Once I go down, I am out for the count. Don’t attempt to wake me up, unless you are very determined and are in possession of great inner strength.