Rest assured, I moved into even higher gear after that, slapping on clothes without completely toweling off, and loading the car. I supported Vivian as we walked to the car and didn’t comment on the fact that she was digging her fingernails into my forearm. In a flash, I was behind the wheel and once on the road, I called the obstetrician, who promised to meet us at the hospital.
The contractions were still a couple of minutes apart when we arrived, but Vivian’s continuing anguish meant that she was taken straight to labor and delivery. I held her hand and tried to guide her through her breathing – during which she again offered various colorful sentiments about me and where I could stick the damn breathing! – until the anesthesiologist arrived for the epidural. Early in the pregnancy, Vivian had debated whether or not to get one before reluctantly deciding in favor, and now it appeared to be a blessing. As soon as the medication kicked in, her agony vanished and Vivian smiled for the first time since she’d shaken me awake that morning. Her obstetrician – in his sixties, with neat gray hair and a friendly face – wandered into the room every twenty to thirty minutes to see how dilated she was, and in between those visits I called both sets of parents, as well as my sister.
It was time. Nurses were summoned and they readied the equipment with calm professionalism. Then, all at once, the doctor told my wife to push.
Vivian pushed through three contractions; on the third, the doctor suddenly began rotating his wrists and hands like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat and the next thing I knew, I was a father.
Just like that.
The doctor examined our baby, and though she was slightly anemic, she had ten fingers, ten toes, a healthy heart and a set of obviously functioning lungs. I asked about the anemia – the doctor said it was nothing to worry about – and after he squirted a bunch of goop in our baby’s eyes, she was cleaned and swaddled and placed in my wife’s arms.
Just as I’d predicted, photos were taken all day long but strangely, when people saw them later, no one seemed to care about my appearance at all.
It’s been said that babies are born looking like either Winston Churchill or Mahatma Gandhi, but because the anemia lent a grayish pallor to my daughter’s skin, my first thought was that she resembled Yoda, without the ears of course. A beautiful Yoda, mind you, a breathtaking Yoda, a Yoda so miraculous that when she gripped my finger, my heart nearly burst. My parents happened to arrive a few minutes later, and in my nervousness and excitement, I met them in the hallway and blurted out the first words that came to mind.
“We have a gray baby!”
My mother looked at me as though I’d gone insane while my father dug his finger into his ear as if wondering if the waxy buildup had clouded his ability to hear effectively. Ignoring my comment, they entered the room and saw Vivian cradling our daughter in her arms, her expression serene. My eyes followed theirs and I thought to myself that London had to be the single most precious little girl in the history of the world. While I’m sure all new fathers think the same thing about their own children, the simple fact is that there can only be one child who is actually the most precious in the history of the world, and part of me marveled that others in the hospital weren’t stopping by our room to marvel at my daughter.
My mom stepped toward the bed, craning her neck to peer even closer.
“Did you decide on a name?” she asked.
“London,” my wife answered, her attention completely devoted to our child. “We’ve decided to name her London.”
My parents eventually left, then returned again that afternoon. In between, Vivian’s parents visited as well. They’d flown in from Alexandria, Virginia, where Vivian had been raised, and while Vivian was thrilled, I immediately felt the tension in the room begin to rise. I’d always sensed that they believed their daughter had settled when deciding to marry me, and who knows? Nor did they seem to like my parents, and the feeling was mutual. While the four of them were always cordial, it was nonetheless obvious that they preferred to avoid each other’s company.
My older sister, Marge, also came by with Liz, bearing gifts. Marge and Liz had been together longer than Vivian and I had – at the time, more than five years – and not only did I think Liz was a terrific partner for my sister, but I knew that Marge was the greatest older sibling a guy could have. With both my parents working – Dad was a plumber and Mom worked as a receptionist at a dentist’s office until her retirement a few years back – Marge had not only served as a substitute parent at times, but as a sibling confidante who helped me wade through the angst of adolescence. Neither of them liked Vivian’s parents either, by the way, a feeling that had coalesced at my wedding, when Vivian’s parents refused to let Marge and Liz sit together at the main table. Granted, Marge had been in the wedding party and Liz had not – and Marge had opted to wear a tuxedo, not a dress – but it was the kind of slight that neither of them had been able to forgive, since other heterosexual couples had been allowed the privilege. Frankly, I don’t blame Marge or Liz for being upset about it, because I was bothered, too. She and Liz get along better than most of the married couples I know.
While our visitors came and went, I stayed in the room with my wife for the rest of the day, alternately sitting in the rocking chair near the window or on the bed beside her, both of us repeatedly whispering in amazement that we had a daughter. I would stare at my wife and daughter, knowing with certainty that I belonged with these two and that the three of us would forever be connected. The feeling was overwhelming – like everything else that day – and I found myself speculating what London would look like as a teenager, or what she would dream about, or what she would do with her life. Whenever London cried, Vivian would automatically move her to her breast, and I would witness yet another miracle.