The Journey To Inspiration

The following was written by Chris as an assignment to his English Lit class he took last semester. Until then, I had never really thought of what it was like for him to watch me go through my pregnancy and the birth of our son. I remember it as very bittersweet as I suffered alot during the pregnancy, developing diabetes. I went through many trips to the hospital because of early labor. When I read Buffalo's post about the first time he saw his daughter, I asked Chris permission to post this and he graciously said yes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.


The Journey To Inspiration


So she’s pregnant. That’s what she told me. And that’s the only thing that I can really focus on at the moment. I place a hand against the wall, fingers curling slightly as if to seek purchase. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, and when I look back to her, I see fear coiled in her dark eyes. She thinks I’m angry. I’m afraid. I should say something, but whatever nerve relay carries words from thought to action seems to have hit a roadblock in the back of my throat. I force a smile, and that only seems to reaffirm her concern. Finally I give up on being articulate and simply extend an arm to her, pulling her to me and tucking her small frame against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her hair and ask quietly, “Have you told the father yet?”

She bounces her fist off my shoulder but doesn’t pull away and we both laugh. Knots within come undone and the fear is momentarily dissolved in the wake of other emotions. The situation lends reality a dreamlike quality and the moment crystallizes in my mind, leaving us frozen in that instant, clinging to one another.

Four months have somehow disappeared. The reality sets in as we watch on a black and white video screen. They show us hands, feet, nose. A tiny heart beating looks like the fluttering of wings. Our midwife says that it is the baby’s heartbeat are hearing. I could have sworn it was mine. Even with the image on the screen, it is hard to imagine exactly what he will look like when he is born. He, yes, it is a boy, my son, my legacy.

Six months pass and the novelty has worn off as the concern begins to overshadow everything else. It seems cheap to say I can properly understand what this is like for her. I know the pregnancy has been troubled, painful. Our constant runs to the hospital tell me that much. Her health deteriorates and the 2am trips I’m making to the store seem to be a small price compared to the balance she’s leveling. I’m prepared, anxious even. I’m ready for my son to enter the world. I felt him kick today. He managed a soft thump in the palm of my hand. “See?” I say. “He’s ready, too.”

A month to go and the doctors begin to share my impatience. He’s growing too fast and that’s putting her health in serious jeopardy. He’ll have to be taken early. His name, his future. As if these weren’t enough, now I have to choose his birthday.

The day has arrived. February 3rd. I step out onto the slick porch, and the chill in the air takes my breath away. I adjust my sweaty grip on the handle of the bag at my side and help my wife down the stairs and to our car. The trip to the hospital is fast, wound with strings of tension strummed by exchanged looks into a melody of nervous laughter. We arrive, greeted by a good sampling of her family as we step into the reception. Plaster angels watch our progress to the desk and the overly cheery woman seated behind it. I hate the smell of this place. The air is a palate of sickness smeared with a coating of chemicals to disguise it. Shouldn’t babies be born in a better environment? Next to a roaring fire in a rustic cabin, all of us waiting outside the door, speaking in hushed whispers as we await the good news. Anything is better than this.

We’re led to a room, and the labor is induced. No turning back, now. We hurry up and wait. I walk her through the halls for a small eternity, accompanied by the steady tap of my shoes on the tile and the swish of her gown. We’re followed doggedly by a silent chaperone in the form of a silver hat tree on wheels, linked to her wrist by a tube. Eventually we reach a room containing a large tub. I half-fill it with steaming water as she disrobes, and I’m struck once again by her beauty. The swell of her abdomen, the source of that proverbial glow, doesn’t diminish her appearance in the least. It heightens it, for what is more undeniably feminine than a mother-to-be? An almost tangible aura of serenity surrounds her, buffering a temperament that leaves no doubt as to the fate that would befall any that sought to harm her unborn child. She catches my look, my faint grin, and assumes I’m gawking. I help her into the tub and don’t bother explaining myself. I can’t make her see through my eyes.

She settles back into the tub, dipping her head momentarily under the water. I tear my eyes away from her and turn my attention to the room itself for the first time, my mind working on another argument over the value of one name over another. Her hand tightens around mine, crushing large callused fingers between her slender ones, and she comes sputtering to the surface. Before I can make my concern verbal, she answers the question forming in my mind with a single word. The contractions have begun. I smile in a way I hope is reassuring and brush her hair from her face. Suddenly, crouched next to the tub, staring into her dark eyes wide with pain and fear, framed by long red hair plastered to the sides of her face, I’m struck by an image. A memory of a cat dropped into a similar tub, struggling to remain afloat, huge eyes screaming of panic. I laugh and receive a face full of water and a wet shirt as punishment. I got off light. I’ve been informed many times since that laughing at a woman in labor has a very low survival rate.

I help her to her feet; dry her with a scratchy white towel that once again reminds me how unnaturally clean this place pretends to be. Then, after helping her into her gown, I lead her back to her room, gathering her family and the midwife on the way.

As they begin, the air is more than charged with emotion, there is an actual mist. A tangible thing I can feel closing in around me. Her hand tightens around mine, and the pain brings my vision back into focus. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m afraid I’ll have to learn to write with my left hand after this. The midwife tells her to push, and she does. I watch the beads of sweat spring into existence on her forehead, band together, and then retreat from sight into the safety of her hair. I’m compelled to look away from her by the midwife yelling at me, telling me to lift her leg. I look up slowly and see the nurse on the opposite side hurrying to obey a similar order. We lift, and I hear screams. Muscles writhe beneath my fingertips with the effort of pushing. She pushes once more and all the sound gathers into an incessant buzz in the back of my head.

Silence greets my son’s entry into the world. Fragile, still, and covered in gore, it’s hard to believe such a thing can be beautiful until you see it. The midwife lays him gently across the abdomen that contained him, and I will him to breathe. After an eternity of buzzing silence, his small face seems to crumple, forehead creasing. I know that look; I’ve felt it on my own face on cold mornings when I’m not ready to get out of bed. The silence is rent by a tiny cry that is, perhaps, the loudest, most wondrous sound I have ever heard. It is at once an indignant and pleading sound. I laugh and choke back a sob, then look down to find that I may be squeezing her hand a bit too hard now. I release, my hand trembling, knuckles white, then reach out to touch the damp, silky black hair that crowns the infants head.

My last memory of that day is walking through the halls of the hospital, my wife in a wheelchair beside me, holding our son. I didn’t mind this place anymore. The smells were different now. If life and the struggle to live have a scent, you will find it in a hospital.

Looking down at my son I know I am forever changed. Each day, each moment, will be spent trying to improve his life. He has become my inspiration in everything I do, from something as complex as going back to school, down to something as simple as which music I should play to help him sleep.



The day our son was born, they had induced me two weeks before my due date. He weighed in at 9pds and 14oz and was only 1 inch shy of being 2 feet long.