“I don’t . . . I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.
“Once we take the baby, if all is well, which I’m optimistic about and is the reason I didn’t want to wait any longer, we will allow you to see her, but the staff behind me will take her, run some tests, and clean her up. Once she’s been assessed, you will be able to hold your daughter,” he explains.
“Okay,” I say because what else do you say to that? At least they are going to let me see her before they take her away.
The doctor nods, and just like that, a flurry of activity happens around us. Even though I blame her, I’m sure she’s scared as hell. At least I am. Reaching over, I take Misty’s hand in mine. She doesn’t speak, but she does turn to look at me. I hold her stare until she squeezes her eyes closed and points her head back toward the ceiling. Still nothing. I wish I knew what she was thinking. I wish I knew how she could be so indifferent to everything that’s happening.
I continue to hold her hand, offering her silent support. At least I tell myself it’s for her. In reality, it’s just as much for me. I hear the doctor ask for a scalpel and my chest tightens. I focus on trying to suck in deep, even breaths, waiting for them to tell me she’s okay.
There’s no semblance of time as I wait for them, just trying like hell to keep breathing. That is until I hear it, hear her. The moment I hear my little girl cry, I release a heavy breath at the same time the doctor announces, “It’s a girl,” to everyone in the room.
She’s here. My daughter. My little girl.
A nurse walks around the curtain and holds her up so we can see her. I don’t bother checking to see if Misty is paying attention. I know she’s not. Instead, I take her in as tears begin to fall.
My daughter is testing out her lungs as she screams, apparently not impressed with her arrival into the world. I don’t care. In this moment, her cries are the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s here and I love her more than I ever thought possible.
This is real.
“We need to take her for some tests, but you can wait for her in the nursery if you want.” I nod, not bothering with the tears as they fall.
I’m a father.
I watch as the team places her under a light and wheels her out of the room. Once she’s out of sight, I turn to face Misty. “Misty,” I say her name, but she doesn’t bother looking at me.
“I know you can hear me. I just want to say thank you. Thank you for giving me my daughter.” I don’t waste time waiting for a reply I know will not come. Instead, I rush out the door in hot pursuit of the nursery.
Quickly stripping out the blue getup, I toss it in the trash and make my way back to the maternity department. Aaron and McKinley are there, waiting for me, just like I knew they would be.
“Well?” Aaron asks.
“She’s here. She’s got a set of lungs on her,” I laugh. “They took her for testing, but said I could wait for her in the nursery. Will you guys come with me?”
I need them there.
“Does a cat have climbing gear?” Aaron asks, causing me to throw my head back and laugh. I know she’s not out of the woods until they run all the tests, but her lungs are strong and I have faith my little girl is a fighter.
“Have you called your family?” Kinley asks.
“Shit, no. I just . . . I came straight to you guys from the operating room.”
“Do you want me to call them?” she asks.
I run my fingers through my hair, torn. “Yeah, I don’t even know how much she weighs or anything. Can you just let them know she’s here and doing well and I will call them when I get to finally hold her?” I ask.
“Sure. You guys go on. I’ll make the calls and catch up with you,” Kinley suggests.
I hesitate, because out of everyone, I want her there with me. She’s been there for me more than anyone else and I want to share this with her.
She picks up on my hesitation and she says, “I’ll hurry. Now go, both of you. You better get your time in because I can’t wait to hold her.” Her eyes mist with tears. Reaching out, I give her hand a gentle squeeze and mouth, “Thank you,” before turning to Aaron. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this,” he says, handing me a pink cigar.
Aaron and I stand outside the glass of the nursery, peering in at all the babies. One of the nurses notices us and comes to the door. “Who are you looking for?” She smiles.
“My daughter, um, Chamberlin. Baby girl Chamberlin,” I say.
“Oh, she’s a cutie that one. We just finished with all her tests. Do you want me to bring her to your room?”