A Father’s Love

and some dwelling on modern events

A father’s love is smelling butts,

fearlessly.

A mother’s love is greater still; she sticks her hand in.

I’m having thoughts. Given the context of our lives in 2020, I thought about the last time I was scared. Truly scared about life turning down a dark, old, suffering forest-road with no end.

Shortly after my second daughter’s birth, there was a problem.

Foreshadowing this moment was the doctor examining the ultrasound results. He chortled in that dark room as he turned from the screen and posed a simple question, “Irish?”.

You see, certain backgrounds are prone to babies with large heads. Irish is one of them apparently. Big heads tend to do damage on the way out.

The time came and I could only imagine how I’d look after evicting a ten-and-a half-pound symbiote from one of my orifices. I remember how pale she was.

I’d seen it once before with our first, but this was different.

Babies come out gray. It’s unexpected and strange, but give them a quick rub, some pokes, prods, and preliminary medical examinations and boom! Color rapidly begins to flourish. Once the baby passes muster she’s quickly placed on her mother’s chest for some skin-to-skin bonding.

To the observing father, it’s like witnessing a flower bloom.

This time only the child bloomed. Due to blood-loss that wouldn’t stem, her mother was waning. The baby was quickly swaddled and handed over to me while med staff prepped the birthing-bed to roll.

I sat very still in a chair with my newborn and asked whether my wife would be alright.

“She’ll be fine.” was all that came back from a trailing nurse.

I held the eyes of my daughter's mother as she reeled out of the room. What I saw was condolence, as if she were trying to tell me it was going to be okay, to have strength. Meanwhile, she was going to go bleed-out somewhere out of sight. The med staff prioritized the olympian effort of saving her life over informing the father of what to expect. Thank god.

I remember the long hours sitting in that room alone. My daughter wrapped in her blankets dozing; for now. I began to think of my oldest daughter — now two years old — home with my parents. I thought about how I would feed a newborn on my own. I thought of coming back to mom and dad, as two, not three.

I was terrified.

I think about how she tried to comfort me as she was wheeled out and how I sat there, still and worried.

As a father in 2020, I am thinking about the strength of others. I’m thinking about the struggles which I can never truly grok but must understand. I am thinking about how I can help.

I am thankful for my family, for the miracles of modern science, and for at least the time being, I’m thankful for being whole.