The First Cry

The first cry of my baby in the delivery room came to mind recently.

It’s a sound I will never forget because: it marked such a big moment in time, but one I couldn’t fully enjoy, just yet, at the time.

Snowfall covered the early morning hours of January 22. Our baby girl was coming five days early. Thankfully, I had gone out to clear off the car and a path leading to it at the onset of my wife’s contractions. Our drive to the hospital — a ride through the Lincoln Tunnel and across midtown Manhattan — was surprisingly smooth. We had the early hour and aforementioned weather to thank for parting the usual waves of traffic and transit.

Upon our arrival at the hospital, a nurse set up mother-to-be with a bed and monitors for her and the impending “her.” It was rather quiet in the unit and the floor, but not long before it seemed we were being checked on too much. Baby’s heartbeat was slowing with each contraction; not a good sign.

Her umbilical cord was wrapped around her shoulders and she would have to be delivered right away. However much time we thought we had, we no longer did. Our doctor had been called and alerted to the situation. Mama was whisked away to get prepped for surgery.

The next perhaps-10 minutes felt both rushed and an eternity. Fathers are told where to put their stuff then dressed in surgical gowns and walked to the door of the operating room. And left. Alone.

Slight glimpses of my other half on the operating table — as the door swung open…