by David Cry
Living in the southern United States, where there are many people who consider themselves to be “pro-life,” teaches you to be careful about certain conversation topics. And to be honest, I was a pro-lifer, too; but when I said that, I meant that in the literal sense of the term. After all, I thought, who among the living isn’t pro-life? How many people do you know who are longing for death? I included all people, especially those affected by life threatening illness, in my “pro-life” view.
I still believe that. But now, having lived as the father of a child fighting for his life, my view has been tempered by experience. All I ask is that you not judge me until you’ve heard my story, and walked in my shoes.
But instead of criticism or condemnation, what I got was: “This is a miracle. That God has so blessed medical science that they can do this … I see it as nothing but a miracle.” This, coming from one of my extremely pro-life friends. I was amazed by his response; I had thought for sure that he would either say nothing, or criticize my choices. But he made sure I understood exactly where he stood; I appreciated his point of view, but I appreciated his open-mindedness more.
As summer turned to fall, Jaymee’s pregnancy was progressing well. Medically speaking, her miraculous pregnancy was unremarkable.
That’s not to say that she wasn’t changing. I did my best to serve her healthy food and to ensure that she got plenty of rest, but she was still tired all the time. She was getting to be a bit heavier, with a more ravenous appetite, a longer sleep schedule, and (at times) a shorter temper. I did my best to be understanding.
Logan, meanwhile, seemed pleased with the prospect of being a big brother. We had made it a point to keep him in the loop on our efforts to get pregnant. We both saw this as important; Logan needed to be aware of the significant transformation our lives were about to undergo.
One morning, we all piled in the car to go to her gynecology appointment. At least, that’s where I thought we were going. It wasn’t until we arrived at the diagnostic department of the hospital, that I realized what I was in for.
“Surprise.” Jaymee’s smile said more to me than any words could.
It was time for her first ultrasound.
As we entered the room, I could not wait to see our son. The diagnostician was understanding; she’d been through it all before. “This is his leg, and his arm … oh look, let me take a picture of this.” The diagnostician snapped a picture and handed it to me. When I saw it, all I could do was smile. Brennan was posed like Rodin’s famous statue The Thinker. I was never more proud.
As spring turned to winter, everything was still going great. With the pregnancy, at least. I’d begun to notice, starting just after the first of the year, that I had been getting more restless and impatient. I was putting headphones on Jaymee’s belly, playing classical music and reading our unborn son Hugo and Hemmingway. To be honest, I was probably a pain at times. But I was anxious for our son to arrive; what I really wanted was to be able to do all of this with him, live and in person.
In late March, Jaymee had an appointment with her obstetrician. No more patient than before, I opted to attend with her. I’m glad I did.
“Doctor, you are not inducing labor on Monday.” Jaymee was adamant. “Monday is April Fool’s Day. My son’s last name is already Cry. Having his birthday on a day commemorating fools and pranksters would be adding insult to injury!” Jaymee had obviously given this considerable thought. To be honest, it hadn’t really occurred to me.
It was decided that she was to be induced that day, a Friday. Her physician seemed reluctant for some reason; privately, I believed it was because he had planned on spending his weekend riding his Harley. As for me, I wanted whatever Jaymee wanted. She had been through so much just getting here that it only seemed right that she should have what she wanted.
After leaving his office, we stopped for a light lunch. Five minutes after leaving the restaurant, Jaymee’s cell phone rang. It was the hospital: The procedure was a go. They were going to induce labor at 3 o’clock that afternoon. I started making calls the second I hung up.
“Mom? We are going to the hospital right now. They want to induce in two hours, at 3 o’clock.” My mother said little; she and my dad had been on high alert already, so they were ready to hit the road at a moment’s notice. That being said, they still had a 12-hour drive ahead of them; still, they hoped to make good time. We called Jaymee’s aunt and asked her to pick Logan up from school. He would spend the night with her while we were at the hospital. It would be fun for him; a nice change of pace, and this particular aunt was famous for taking guests out to dinner to show them an enjoyable time. Logan, of course, was no exception.
Jaymee and I returned home to get her bag. We had packed it a few days earlier, and it had served as a constant reminder for what was about to transpire. If my body produced adrenaline, it would have been surging by now. As it was, I was happy, nervous, excited, and freaked out, all at the same time. Jaymee, as ever, was calm. Sure, she was having a baby, but she had done it before. No big deal.
After arriving at the hospital, Jaymee got situated in bed while I sat and watched. A few minutes later, the doctor entered with a nurse. As the doctor explained the steps in the upcoming procedure, the nurse put a line in Jaymee’s arm. After she had finished, she smiled while the doctor explained that Pitocin, a medication used to start labor, would soon be dripping into my wife’s bloodstream. All I could think was that our little guy would be arriving soon.
As if it would ever be that simple.
Jaymee’s labor was slow in coming. She endured in a wonderful way; as much as she was displeased, she did suck it up. Meanwhile, I had nothing to do but read a book. Afternoon gave way to evening, and I did my best to encourage her. Have I mentioned that my wife is amazing? She simply smiled, kissed me, and promised that things were fine. An absolute angel.
Finally, both of us faded off to sleep; she in a medical bed, me in the adjacent chair. Not to say that the sleep was comfortable; the nurse came in every 20 minutes to check on Jaymee, check the IV drip, checking everything in the room. Just as we’d get comfortable, the door would open and rattle us awake. I was less than pleased.
Jaymee was as well. My wife enjoys sleep—a lot. Around 4 o’clock she sat up and growled when the nurse came in. She wanted rest. Her labor was not progressing as it should, and she was irritated. Understandably so.
The following morning, I woke up, took a shower, and checked on Jaymee. There was not much change. The nurse came in and explained that even more medication was being added to help things along. I kissed Jaymee and left. I needed some breakfast.
I went downstairs and had a modest breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. Not my normal breakfast fare, but it was available and I was hungry. Just after getting off the elevator on Jaymee’s floor, my cell phone rang. It was my mom; she and my father were about 40 miles from the Oklahoma state line. They had spent the night somewhere in Arkansas, and it sounded as though they were making good time. Things were going well. For them, at least.
“What did you do, eat?” Jaymee’s voice was loud, and clearly not happy.
“Yes, baby. It’s morning. I had breakfast.” Having never heard this voice from my wife before, I tried my best to be careful.
Probably should have tried harder. “Well isn’t that grand?! What did you have? Wait, let me guess: You had bacon, because I can smell it. You probably had eggs over easy and toast too, didn’t you?!” As new and exciting as Confrontational Jaymee was, I thought it best to just keep my mouth closed. No point in her smelling the bacon again.
The drugs were amped up and before long, Jaymee started feeling uncomfortable. She finally opted for medication to ease the pain. I did not blame her; her discomfort showed. Some women choose to go through childbirth naturally, while others opt to have the pain eased. Having never passed a baby through my body, I have no real opinion of worth. To me, if something hurts, it makes sense to put the pain at ease; but then, who am I to make
that call?
Around 1 o’clock in the afternoon, Jaymee’s doctor entered. “It’s almost time,” he said somewhat gruffly. For some reason, he did not seem pleased to be there. The aforementioned Harley, I suppose.
I sat next to Jaymee and held her hand. All of the color was gone from her face. For now, at least; that was about to change.
“Push.” The doctor peered in, and came back up with a look of disdain. “Push.” Jaymee gritted her teeth and gave it her all. All I could do was hold her hand, whispering words of love and encouragement.
Between contractions, she rested and I read. Yes, I read a book; what can I say? There wasn’t much else I could do. Plus, it was a classic piece of literature, and despite having already read it two or three times before, I was lost in its pages.
“Honey, what are you doing?” Jaymee asked during one of the brief moments when nothing else was happening.
“Reading.” I suppose I was somewhat short with her; I did not intend to be, but tensions were high.
“Could you possibly pry yourself away from the book? Your son is about to be born.” She was not upset, mind you; she was just concerned that I wasn’t paying attention.
“Yes, honey.” In that moment, I would have done anything she asked. She was about to become the mother of my son.
Out of nowhere, the door to our room opened a crack. It was my mom and dad; they had arrived in time. I motioned to them to indicate that we were in the middle of something. She waved back, even as she closed the door. As she left I heard her voice trailing off: “We’ll be out here …”
Meanwhile, we’d been rejoined by our erstwhile doctor. After several rounds of pushing, he seemed to come to a decision. “We may have to pull him out,” he said. “I had no idea that your cervix was this narrow, Jaymee.” I got down and took a look. My son’s head could be seen, but it was clearly not moving. It was looking like there was just too much of him to pass through her. My wife, after all, is petite. This was becoming a problem. The doctor came back with a suction cup of sorts, and when he was ready, he placed it over Jaymee’s cervix, approximately where the baby’s head was.
He pulled, and out popped Brennan Andrew Cry. It was 3:18 P.M. on Saturday, March 29th. After 24 hours and 18 minutes of labor, our little one had finally arrived.
I looked him over. At first, his head had a definite cone shape to it, a result of the suction device. But by the time they’d finished cleaning him up and cutting the umbilical cord, his head had come back into shape. Before I knew it, my mom and dad were both in the room with us, while I stood there in a daze, holding my newborn son.
My dad moved close to me and peered down to see his grandson. “You know he is a genius right?” he asked, his face expressionless.
“Dad, he’s 5 minutes old. How could you possibly know he’s a genius?” I felt like I was being baited, but I played along anyway.
“Well, son, technically I’m a genius,” he replied, stone-faced. I’d heard all this before; my father was highly intelligent, and he never let me forget it. “Now, I’m sure you didn’t know, but dumb skips a generation. So Brennan is a genius by default.” No smile, no laughter; he just put it out there, and left it to hang. That was my dad in a nutshell; dry and classic.
I could not take my eyes off of my little boy. In my mind, he was perfect; a good weight and height, no real problems with his birth, and a clean genetic slate. I couldn’t have been happier.
When I looked over at Jaymee, she was already on the phone with her aunt, who had come to the hospital with Logan in tow. Although Jaymee had given her directions, it seemed that she was still having trouble finding our room, so I volunteered to head down to meet them. After all, Logan had to meet his new little brother.
I climbed aboard my handicap scooter and made my way down the hall, out toward the parking garage. It wasn’t until I had practically reached the car when it hit me—he was right.
By “he,” I mean a close friend of mine, Martin Bech. Two nights prior, we had had a conversation about fatherhood:
“How is everything going?” Marty asked.
“Things are fine,” I answered, “but in a way it all seems … surreal. Today, I have no biological children; tomorrow, things could all be different.”
“I’m not sure surreal is the proper word for it.” Marty’s always had a habit of correcting people’s word choice; he’s done it since we were kids. “I think I’d use the term, ‘sublime.’ ”
“How exactly is it sublime?”
“The day that my daughter Virginia was born, my heart leapt out of my chest after about 30 minutes of holding her in my arms. It was the most incredible feeling I have ever experienced.”
And he was right. Even as I stood, I felt taller than any man alive. My chest was puffed out in a way it never had before, and I felt an air of invincibility that was completely unfamiliar. I was a father. There has never been, nor will there ever be (unless I became a dad again) anything that could top this experience.
My life’s intended meaning took on new purpose for me. For nearly eight years, I had been helping families with children suffering from terminal illness. And even though I poured my heart into being there for them, until the moment that I became a biological parent myself, I do not believe I ever understood or truly appreciated the words I said. I couldn’t; while I could easily sympathize with anyone, or tell them I was sorry (which I truly was) it was not until I became a father that I got it. I loved Logan—had loved him since the day we met. I would do anything for him, even give my right arm to ensure that he was safe and happy, but this was different. Biology was playing a role here, and its pull could not be resisted.
Once my feet touched solid ground again, I quickly found Logan with his aunt and rushed them both to see Jaymee and Brennan. Logan was so happy to find that his little brother was finally here. I already envisioned for them a relationship similar to the one I shared with my oldest brother, Jim. The age difference was identical, and Jim and I had always been close. When I was younger, Jim took me on his dates; some of the first movies I ever saw were with Jim. I could already see Logan using his baby brother as a means to pick up the prettiest girls (not that he would need much help, mind you).
Later the next day, we returned home and started our new lives as a family of four. My mom and dad, who were committed to being there with us for the first two weeks, were an incredible help. They cleaned, organized, and straightened the house out, working as a perfect team. Jaymee was mesmerized.
“Your mom and dad are incredible.” She gave them both loving looks as she spoke.
“Baby, they’re my family. What did you expect?” I was not at all surprised by anything they were doing. I half-expected them to go over and above the call of duty, and start managing the household finances. I had lived with them for a long time; I knew how they were.
“We need to discuss something.” It was a week or so after Brennan was born, and Jaymee was attempting to get herself organized.
“Oh? What do we have to talk about?” I responded. I was content; as far as I was concerned, everything was going perfectly. There was no real need for a conversation, was there?
“We need to decide which daycare center Brennan is going to go to.” She seemed ready to roll up her sleeves and make a choice, right then and there.
“Well Jaymee, I’ve been giving that some thought.” The look on her face immediately shifted to one of surprise. “I’ve been thinking that Brennan should stay with me, and not go to daycare.” I kept my voice firm.
“What about your work? Won’t that make it difficult for you to accomplish what you need to get done?”
“Honey, how many fathers get the chance to really raise their children? The way I see it, despite women being the traditional primary in raising children, I don’t think that a touch of unconventionality will do any harm.” At the look on her face, I softened my tone somewhat. “I love Brennan in a way that I just cannot describe. Although I have been saying things m
y whole life, for the first time, I am without words. I want to do this. I want our son to know just how much his father loves him.”
I could tell that she thought I was crazy, but I soldiered on. “Lots of kids go to daycare, and I have no problem with it. For many of the parents who work two jobs like us, daycare is a necessity. But I also realize that by placing our son’s upbringing in the hands of another person, one not in his immediate family, we are potentially creating more work for ourselves further down the line.” I was on a roll now. There was no stopping me.
“And just what type of work are you referring to, oh great one?” Jaymee asked playfully. I knew she was teasing me, but I wasn’t about to let that distract me.
“Well, if he is essentially being raised by another person, it would seem likely that their values are sure to be imparted. Correct?” It was a serious question.
“I suppose that’s true,” Jaymee admitted, becoming a bit more serious herself.
“What if those values aren’t consistent with ours? Do we re-teach him what we want him to know? Or do we just content ourselves with what some stranger is imparting?”
And that was all it took. In less than two minutes, Jaymee had completely come around to my way of thinking. Now, I have no particular issue with daycare programs, early pre-schools or similar set-ups. In today’s world, having help in raising a child is essential; not every kid has a grandmother willing or able to take care of their new grandchild. The way I see it, whatever you have to do, do it. I made the choice that I did strictly because I could. I wanted Brennan at home, with me. And looking back now, it was the best possible decision—for him and for me.
Five months after my life as a stay-at-home dad had begun, the phone rang, with Marty on the other end.
“I wanted to call to let you know: I am jealous!” This coming from a man who lived the life of a successful attorney; he was jealous of me? In all the years I’d known him, Martin had never once let on that he was jealous of anyone, let alone me.
