Waiting for My Granddaughter
A Long Night’s Journey Into Sunshine
“Ten? Why does it have to be Ten? Can’t it be Eight? Why do we have to wait until Ten?”
“Because”, said my daughter, Risa, who happens to be a doctor but didn’t really need to be one to answer this question (just someone that could tolerate stupid questions), “the baby’s head needs to fit through”.
“But what if the baby has a small head?” I asked, “did they ever think about that?”
“Dad, you really need to find something else to think about. Why don’t you go for a walk or something. You’re driving everyone crazy.”
By this point in the day, it was now around 8 AM, I probably had lost a lot of my ability to reason. Sitting and waiting for your daughter to give birth to your first grandchild is not an easy thing. If I just had some idea of when it would end- when the baby would arrive — I could probably manage my emotions better. My wife, Jackie, and I had arrived at the waiting room for maternity at around 2 AM filled with excitement and energy. A baby was coming. This was going to be great. We were high on adrenaline; like a marathon runner jumping out to an early lead. The problem was, we had no idea how long this marathon would last. You start running but you have no idea how far you have to run; where the finish line is. We were now over six hours into the race and our “runners high” was long past. We were now experiencing oxygen deprivation and just barely holding on. I needed some perspective. Some way to measure time against a goal. Something to stop me from asking stupid questions like, who decided that ten centimeters was the right amount of dilation.
Making this about me was my way of taking my mind off of what was really going on. My daughter was upstairs in a Labor and Delivery Room. I was nervous for her. It’s usually a father’s job to protect his kids. To do what he can to make things less scary for them. At this moment, I was helpless. I was pretty sure that she was in pain. I was pretty sure that she was nervous and scared. But there was nothing that I could do to make her feel any less nervous and scared. I hoped that the doctors were giving her something to ease the pain. I hoped that everything was going as it was supposed to go. I hoped that there were enough episodes of Friends and New Girl on to keep her occupied. But the separation, the not being there, the helpless feeling of just waiting and waiting, was almost more than I could take. Admittedly, whatever stress I was feeling, was nothing compared to what must have been going on upstairs. I was being self-centered, and I knew it. But I needed something to do to pass the time, so why not complain?
The miracle of birth is something that continues to astonish me. Through an act of love and commitment, a new human being is created. One second, it’s a thought. A notion. Nothing more than an idea. A vague concept. The next second, an actual living, breathing human being is here. Fully formed. Complete. Ten fingers and ten toes. Everything in tact; just miniaturized. A person that over time will grow and mature and develop its own personality, its own ideals, its own values. It will have strengths and weaknesses. It will have passions and talents. It will love and be loved. It will have likes and dislikes. Things will make it smile and laugh. Cry and tremble. This new human will have an impact on life on this planet. What will that be? What kind of person will this child become? All of a sudden, a new person arrives. It happens every minute of every day and each time it is a miracle. This time it was my granddaughter and I was freaking out.
I was freaking out with excitement. I was freaking out with bottled up joy. I was freaking out in anticipation of being able to hold this newborn life in my arms. I was freaking out with the awesome responsibility that comes with being a grandfather. I wanted to be the kind of grandfather that you see in TV and movies. The fun kind but also the kind that imparts wisdom. The kind that has a special and unique bond with their grandchildren. I wanted to be the kind of grandfather that acts silly but also can be serious and thoughtful. The kind that is very close but not so close that he intrudes. I wanted to influence this new life in a positive way, and I couldn’t wait to get started.
The waiting room at Mt. Sinai hospital could not be any more uncomfortable. It was as if someone made the conscious effort to make this the last place on earth that you would want to spend the night. The couches were made of what felt like cement covered in a hard-plastic shell. It gave the appearance of being soft when in fact it was — literally — hard as a rock. They were also designed at an angle such that it was impossible to sit comfortably no matter what position you contorted your body into. I say this with confidence because I tried every normal way I could think of to sit or lie on the couch. I even tried some abnormal ones. No matter what I did, my neck was unsupported, my legs were numb and my bottom felt like it was being repeatedly mashed into an anvil. My lower back moved from spasm to spasm like a drunk with uncontrollable hiccups. I considered lying on the cold and dirty tile floor as an alternative to the medieval torture that was the couch but thought better when I thought about everything that had touched that floor in the past twenty-four hours.
I did have one opportunity to go up and visit my daughter and son-in-law in the Labor and Delivery Room. This was around 3 AM, not long after we got there. My daughter, Alix, was lying on her side hooked up to all manner of machinery. Monitors and screens and tubes and wires, all buzzing and beeping at what felt like completely random intervals. If you didn’t know you were in a hospital, you would think that you were at Mission Control monitoring the launch of the Space Shuttle. I stood and watched while the anesthesiologist administered a higher dose of the epidural to ease the increasing level of pain that my daughter was feeling. I stood and watched while the doctors came in and studied the baby’s heartbeat. I stood and watched as my son-in-law, Matt, lovingly and expertly offered comfort and support to my daughter; did what he could to make her feel better, more at ease. And I realized that I was a bit player in this drama. I realized that my time for being the one to protect and comfort my daughter had passed. My role had changed. There wasn’t much more that I could do except kiss my daughter on the forehead, tell her that I loved her and go back to the waiting room.
For much of the time that I sat and waited, my little group, consisting of Jackie, my daughter’s mother-in-law, Diane and brother-in-law, Jonathan, Risa and me, were the only ones in the waiting room. For brief periods other groups came in and out. It took everything that I had not to complain to “management” when a family that came in after us, was told that their baby had arrived and left to go up and visit it. This seemed fundamentally unfair to me. Like being in a crowded restaurant and seeing a table that sat after you get their food before you. Shouldn’t things be done in a certain order? How can they have their baby first? We got here before them!
By 6 AM the sun came up and it was as if a curtain was rising on a Broadway show. When you arrive somewhere in the middle of the night, the scope of your vision is limited to only what is either very close, or illuminated by street lights. This made the waiting feel even more confining, as if the world was smaller than normal. Like being in a dark room and not knowing where the walls were. Now, with the sun up, I could see the full expanse in front of me. I could see that we were directly across from Central Park. The city was coming to life. People were jogging in the park, riding their bikes, walking their dogs. Going about their business as they did every day. Everything completely normal. None of these people had any idea that at some point that day a baby would be born. Their lives would be unchanged but mine would change forever.
At around 8AM, we were told, via a text message from Matt, that Alix was seven centimeters dilated. That’s when the dialogue above began. To ascribe a standard criterion for delivery seemed capricious to me. Why not eight or nine centimeters? What if the baby has an enormous head and needs twelve centimeters?
“There are doctors up there that know what they are doing,” Risa reminded me. “Go get some food, you look terrible.”
So, Jackie and I ventured out into the brisk New York morning to see what we could find to eat. Coffee sounded like a good idea. Bagels wouldn’t suck either. The cool air filled my lungs and renewed my energy and allowed me to get my head on straight. What was I complaining about? This is a great day for everyone. We worked our way down a few blocks and stumbled upon a little bakery where we ordered our bagels and coffee. Of course, the place got the order wrong and only gave us one cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese instead of two but the coffee was good and I supplemented my meal with a Builder’s Bar. The food and caffeine helped. I was ready to hunker down and wait this little baby out.
As I was sitting there, it occurred to me that perhaps my granddaughter had some say in all of this. That perhaps she just wasn’t ready to join this world. Maybe she was so comfortable in the womb, felt so warm and protected that she preferred to stay for a while longer. Maybe she listened to too much MSNBC while gestating inside her mom that she decided that she would rather wait for the 2020 elections to emerge; waiting for someone else to be the White House. If so, who could blame her? Or, maybe this strong minded, independent, free-thinking young woman was just taking this opportunity to let her parents and grandparents know that she would be the one calling the shots from now on. Free will is a powerful thing. Even in a not yet new born.
Time, despite my discomfort, found a way to move forward. I passed it responding to text messages from family members wondering what was going on and by starring out the window ono the now fully active Central Park scene. At around 10:30AM a text arrived from Matt saying that Alix had finally reached the requisite level of dilation (which I agreed not to question anymore) and that soon doctors would arrive and pushing would begin. This was met by renewed excitement from our group as we were now in the home stretch. Being so close to the end, especially after sitting there all night with no sleep, was harder than I thought. I needed to do something with myself, so I decided that I would walk outside and stand for a while in the sun. Maybe the activity in the park would take my mind off things and help pass the time. Maybe I could distract myself by watching other people.
It was during this time that the enormity of the moment really hit me. Up until now this felt like an exercise in endurance. An Iron Man event and nothing more. I intellectually knew what was going on. I knew that my daughter was in labor and that she soon would be a mom, but it never felt completely real until this moment. Standing alone, being warmed by the sunlight, leaning against the brick wall that defines Central Park, it all hit me. A new generation was being born. My daughter, the infant that I vividly recalled holding in my arms moments after she was born, was about to be a mother. The child whose umbilical cord I cut was about to give birth to a daughter, whose cord would be cut by my son-in-law. And so it goes.
I began to think about Alix not just as my daughter but as a mother. As someone responsible for another life. I have always been fully confident that my daughter would be a great mom. She exudes warmth and caring. My father says that she is sugar. I say that she is mush. She emotes often and cries easily. She loves unconditionally and with all her heart. She is naturally nurturing and instinctively a care giver. It is possible for Alix to be angry at you, but it is an infrequent and fleeting event which usually passes quickly. Equally, I am certain that Matt will be a great father. He had a great role model in his father, who sadly passed before he got to see this but whose legacy and teaching is ingrained in his son. It is unfair that Matt’s dad was not here to witness this. One of the cruel realities of life. I know that Matt carries a lot of his father in him and that all those important values and love that were passed down to him will emerge as he grows into his role as a father. Matt will be patient and kind and loving; just like his parents. I can’t wait to see these two “kids” mature into the parents that they were meant to be. I thought, as I stood waiting outside negotiating between the smells of the recently opened Halal cart and hot dog stand on Fifth Avenue, that being able to watch your children become parents must be the coolest thing there is. They will not be perfect. They will make mistakes. But gosh, I wasn’t perfect, and I still make mistakes. All you can do is try your best. Love your kids. And cross your fingers. A lot.
“Anything?”, came the text from my son, Sam, who lives in Colorado and was monitoring the play-by-play as best he could from across the country.
“Nothing. Still pushing”, I responded.
And then, just as I was about to say something like “I’ll let you know when it happens”, came the message that we had all been waiting for. The news that my granddaughter had arrived. The words we had been waiting to hear since we first arrived at the hospital nearly ten hours earlier:
“Welcome, Jolie Blake,” it said, “6 pounds 14 ounces. Mom and daughter are both doing great.”
The long night’s journey into sunshine was over. The baby was here. I was a grandfather. I ran across Fifth Avenue and back into the hospital waiting room to celebrate with our little group. Messages were sent across the country. Phone calls were made. Pent up anxiety and emotions were released. She was here. Mother and child were both doing great.
In time, we would go up and visit Alix and Jolie. There would be kisses and tears and hugs. Time would pass more quickly now. We would get to hold the baby and take pictures and video chat. We would go home that night and sleep a peaceful, long sleep.
Years from now, when Jolie is old enough to understand, I will tell her about the long night that we all spent waiting for her to arrive. How I was irritable and cranky. How I couldn’t get comfortable on the couches. How I couldn’t wait to hold her and be her grandfather. I will tell her how much I love her and how much I want to be a good grandfather to her.
