“Dada”

Depending on his point of view, it is either the happiest or the scariest four-letter word a man will ever hear.

Away from all the glitz and merrymaking, the Christmas story is first and foremost about the birth of a very special Boy in a manger in Bethlehem. A year ago, I became the father to a very special boy of my own. This is his birth story.

We didn’t marry with any definite plan to start a family. In our profiles on the dating website where my wife and I first met, we both had indicated ‘maybe’ as our answer to whether we hoped to have children. Neither did it seem that we were in all that good a shape health-wise to conceive easily. So it was agreed that we would first orient our marriage to focus solely on each other. Then, if we ever felt that the time was right to have kids, we would try, failing which we could always adopt.

Two years pass. By now we are busy starting up a cafe, managing to just barely keep ourselves and the business going with income from our part-time jobs. Sometime in early 2014, we notice that she is late. She has been late before, but never by 3 weeks. This time it seems different. This time she is throwing up her favourite pork ribs soup. As we watch the home pregnancy test strip turn slowly but irrefutably positive on the third attempt, I feel a fainting spell come on. Not my finest hour.

“I Need to Lie Down.”

I am not one of those rom-com husbands who jumps for joy and spins his expectant wife in the air. No, I am one of those soap matinee types who needs to sit down, except that in my case I need to collapse on the bed for sixteen hours, getting up only for the occasional bathroom break. Instead of rejoicing in a new addition to the family, I mourn the almost certain demise of our F&B venture, and the evaporation of all the money and hard effort that we have put into it.

As I lie there, one arm across a feverish forehead, I think about how we should have been more careful. What have I done? I think about all the tumultuous changes we will go through. Having made do by living in rented rooms up till then, I agonise over how I’m supposed to break the news to my parents that we got pregnant before we even getting our BTO.

Could we afford to keep our cafe? How much will it cost to rent a whole flat? Should we get a maid? Which obstetrician do we go to? What are the hospital charges for antenatal care and delivery? Do I give up my dreams? I’m not ready for this! My teary eyes burn with a thousand unanswerable questions, and my overwhelming negativity makes even my initially glad wife weep.

The next day is a typical working Monday, and one of the most difficult days I ever have to pull through. It takes all I have to keep from being distracted by the big news of the previous night. It doesn’t help that, of all the days, this is the one day I have to feed an oral vaccine to a 2-month-old, and my lack of confidence leads a staff to comment that I am obviously not a father. For a few weeks, I resort to coping by not caring. I tell myself that some people don’t even consider a pregnancy “real” until the third month. At the first antenatal checkup, I hesitate on whether to join my wife for her ultrasound, and end up waiting for her outside the room instead.

“Oh Wow…”

Afterwards she shows me some pictures of the foetus that the sonographer has helped to take. I am stung with a tinge of regret. Looking at the little one free-floating in the lightless sanctum of its mother’s womb, strange and unfamiliar feelings begin to stir in me.

Here is a new life, no larger than a grape, with head and arms and legs already visible. Against many odds it has come into being, and intends to cling on with everything it had. All it asks for is a chance. It is strong, yet so fragile, and it is calling out for love.

It is time I answer. Time I put away my childish ways. I never miss another ultrasound.

The next ultrasound we confirm a vigorous heartbeat, and I accidentally let out a startled laugh upon seeing what appears to be a face onscreen. As a GP, I’ve watched other ultrasounds before, but beholding the sight of my own flesh awakens an inexplicable bond between us. Is this the parental instinct that people talked about? Seeing it twitch and roll about to avoid the ultrasound probe, I can no longer deny my amazement, nor the humbling privilege that has been bestowed upon us. For whatever reason, this life has been entrusted to our care. We could only hope we would prove deserving. Maybe we could actually do this. Maybe we’d be alright.

Over the following months, we get things sorted out. My parents react with support and encouragement instead of criticism, much to my surprise. My wife’s parents volunteer for the childcare when the time comes. By finding more work, I manage to make rent for the cafe premises despite operations having to be tailed off as my wife grew heavier. The 20th week ultrasound confirms it’s a boy! We find a whole flat rental we can actually afford. The due date draws nearer. Our boy sure can kick. Maybe he’ll do soccer, or taekwondo.

“He’s Perfect.”

But what’s a pregnancy without a dramatic finale? Just when we think we are out of the woods, we are thrown a final curveball. At the 35th week, my wife has to be admitted in case she develops a condition called pre-eclampsia. The obstetrics team decides to schedule her for caesarean section once gestation reaches 36 weeks. She will have to remain for close observation until then.

Having used up most of our savings in the downpayment and agent’s fee for our new flat, I pay the inpatient admission deposit with a combination of cash and remaining credit card balance. With my wife unwell, and only a few hundred dollars of actual cash left, I do not even want to contemplate the eventual bill for the extended hospital stay and surgery. I will have to take this one day at a time. Never have I lived more in-the-moment. Each day of pay I take home will make all the difference. And hopefully the Baby Bonus will help soften the financial shock.

We pray for grace the night before surgery. The next morning sees a flurry of activity as she is wheeled to the operating theatre. I am instructed to put on a paper-thin coverall and a pair of shoe-covers before I can join her. In the theatre, as I hold her hand, I see only the top third of her as the rest of her body has been screened off for the procedure. The anaesthetist tells me I can talk to her to cheer her on and keep her conscious. The drugs are making her breathless and drowsy but nothing will keep her from seeing her baby. Minutes pass like several lifetimes. A few pulls, a few solid tugs, and he is out. He cries. A good and strong cry. It is the most magnificent sound I have ever heard.

I attend to paperwork while waiting in reception, as mother and child perform skin-to-skin contact for one hour. Then he is brought out in a cot for me to see as well. As I gaze upon his small swaddled form, initial feelings of affection and wonder quickly give way to panic and helplessness. It dawns on me that I don’t even know how to pick up my son.

“There’s a few ways to do it. Just remember to always hold the head. Try, it’s not hard!” encourages the nurse.

After some mental rehearsal and a few tentative re-posturings, I do. “PLEASE GOD DON’T LET ME DROP HIM,” is screaming in my mind. I carefully put him back in the cot. As a marginally premature infant, hospital protocol dictates that he be monitored in the neonatal high dependency unit for a period of time.

We all finally get to go home after three more days. In between the feedings and nappy changes, he is a picture of peace and serenity. As I cradle him in the stillness of the night, I cannot get over how beautiful he is – his ocean eyes, his rosy cheeks, his button nose, his slender fingers… Is he really gorgeous or am I just biased? I don’t know what other people might see, but I see only perfection. Any faults he will have are ultimately mine, because I am responsible for him. To me, he is a gift from Heaven.

“Unto You This Day A Child Is Born”

This is not a parenthood promotion piece. I did not start out thankful for the pregnancy. But knowing that there are couples out there who can try so hard to conceive only to have their hearts broken time and again, I could not deny that a great blessing had been laid upon us.

In truth, a new life is not something you can demand into being. If you do become a father, or mother, however, the question of whether you’re ready or not is no longer relevant. Either you learn to love, or you don’t.

Christmas is a time to celebrate the many gifts we enjoy – loving relationships, good health, great jobs, nice presents. Above all, let us celebrate the one gift we have all been given.
The gift of Life.