Deranged man or happy as larry?

I’m sitting outside the operating theatre in a pair of white cotton overalls. I’m wearing a red-gauze cap on my head and dust covers on my shoes. The newspaper’s open in front of me.

If I was outside, you might think I was a factory worker on a break. But I’m not. I’m waiting to be called into the operating theatre to witness the surgeon cutting into my wife’s belly to pull out our second daughter.

I’m sitting opposite the lifts and trying to play it cool. I remind myself that the last time Kate gave birth - two-and-a-half years ago - it was an emergency. But this time, it’s going to be different. This time it’s going to run smoothly.

The lift pings, the doors open and a midwife steps out pushing a newborn in a humidicrib. A man shambles along beside her. He looks terrible. His eyes are red and his cheeks are wet. He must be the Dad but he’s so wrecked I can’t tell if he’s devastated or overjoyed.

I bury my head back in the paper. Warney took three wickets in the test against Pakistan. Is this the best the world can dish up for my daughter’s birthday? The lift pings, the doors open, a woman with a stethoscope gives me a knowing smile. I try to smile back but my face is as stiff as a rusty pump handle. My cheeks screech with the effort.

“Not long to go,” she says.

Not long to go I think. Not long to go until I’m living in a world of joy or a world of hurt. Our first daughter, Darcey, was born with extraordinary birthmarks. It took 18 months for the true nature of her condition to reveal itself and during that time there were many dark moments.

It’s ok now - she’s brilliant, she is light itself - but I never want to go to that shadowy place again. Now I’m waiting for Grace to be born - Grace will be her name - and it’s all in the hands of God. How will God role the dice?

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Someone dressed like me says it’s time to go. My heart starts kicking like a mule. I walk down a corridor and push through some double doors into a cool, well-lit room full of bleeping machines and masked people. I see my wife on the table. She’s tubed up like some sort of alien experiment.

She gives me a nervous smile. I kiss her forehead and for a while we make small talk but suddenly the surgeons press forward, scalpels are wielded and the cutting begins. It takes a while.

It’s a long way down to where Grace is sleeping. I wonder if she can hear the tools at work above her? I wonder at what point she begins to suspect that something is not quite right in her warm, soupy world. Is it when the cool air hits her feet? When the sharp light streams in? Or when the surgeon grabs her ankles and yanks her out with force.

But it’s not a matter of force it seems. Because our daughter is stuck. Grace is stuck and no amount of force is getting her out. Her head is inside her mother and the rest of her is stretched out in the operating theatre.

She decides to complain. She takes a breath to cry out but instead of oxygen she inhales blood and other fluids. I hear her muffled gurgles and I know that something is wrong. The surgeon calls her ‘silly girl’ because she’s stuck in her mother, but to me it sounds like: ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

The surgeons work on her. They see-saw our daughter back and forth to try and get her head out of the gap. It’s like she’s wearing a thick rubbery jumper she can’t quite get off. Precious seconds tick by. Grace is gurgling. Somewhere in my guts a cold, dark feeling starts to seep in.

The surgeon calls for scissors and hastily snips away. It sounds like she’s cutting carrots. Then suddenly our daughter is freed, bloodied and creamy, flailing and screaming, holding court in the theatre. The sun is streaming through the windows now, and everyone is chattering and laughing like we’re having a picnic.

I’m led to where they’re arranging Grace on a pair of scales. She’s a beautiful, slippery pink thing. I look into her eyes and watch her trying to make sense of the world. I go back to Kate and say: ‘She’s fine Love, she’s fine.’

Six hours later I’m driving home from the hospital and Cold Play’s on the radio singing: Look at the stars, look how they shine for you, and everything you do. My eyes fill up and my mouth stretches in all sorts of weird and unmanageable ways.

If you happened to be driving past, you might think I was deranged. But I’m not, I’m just a father of two and everything is ok with the world. Grace has arrived safely and our little family is fine. We’re doing just fine.

by Bruce Atherton

This article was first published in Australian Family Magazine, May 2005.