I love stories from a father’s perspective when observing his child being born.
I heard the question, but I was a mist, trying to catch up with the moment, and choking on my emotions. I heard it again (“What’s her name?”), but it was a mere echo in the distance, a faint and muddled inquiry in stupefied ears. I couldn’t respond.
A full cast of medical staff swirled about the room like a Broadway dream-scene dance number. I was little more than a prop, frozen and dimly lit–an unremarkable tree tucked ignominiously in the background of a delivery room set. Lindsey, in the spotlight, played the role of the suffering queen while a princess emerged on center stage in nothing short of horrifying fashion.
Skipping the usually-immediate skin-to-skin contact shared between mother and baby, the nurse snatched our child and rushed her to the scale. It was then that I heard another, more familiar, voice begging beneath the noise.
“Is she breathing?”…
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