At the anniversary of my law firm a few weeks back, Paul and I reminisced about our origin story, even though we're just a couple of aging lawyers, and no super heroes. We agreed that we SHOULD tell tales of important life events each year -- as we do for holidays. Does the meaning of the Passover seder change, or the words? No -- nor do the reasons for Independence Day.
And so I tell again the origin story of the girl, now woman, who made me a Daddy, my best and highest identity on this earth.
Wifey was due around Thanksgiving, and ready to stop feeling like a beached whale. The ultrasounds initially showed she might be carrying twins, but it turned out it was one baby girl and one fibroid -- a big one.
It was early Sunday morning, before sunrise, and Wifey woke me with the news that her water had broken. We were calm, though I always expected to be frantic like the parents to be on all the sitcoms I ever watched. We took her bag and drove the 10 minutes or so from our little house in Kendall to South Miami Hospital -- and they took Wifey in and brought her to a labor room.
Her main OB was Debbie Kenward -- Wifey's age, and a cool, Jewish woman who had started at Miami Dade, finished at UF, and become an accomplished OB/GYN -- back in those halcyon days that docs did both. Debbie wasn't on, her partner Richard Strassberg was, a tall, laconic Midwestern Jewish fellow -- proud Wisconsin grad. Dr. S came in and got Wifey hooked up to the fetal monitor, and so began a VERY long day of labor.
Richard was there, and fortunately for we two football fans, the Dolphins were on -- playing the Jets. It was one of those late 80s classic QB battles between Dan Marino and Ken O'Brien, though neither team was having a good season, and so the Jets started Pat Ryan. Still -- lots of passing touchdowns -- Ken O'Brien came in at the end, and the Jets won. The game was at Giants Stadium -- they hadn't yet given the stadium a neutral name -- the Jets were always the poor child up there, anyway.
Wifey was in a lot of pain -- especially after Dr. S started the pitocin to strengthen her contractions, and despite the fact that she was on an epidural. I think she remarked, looking at the two guys watching football, that she was glad we were having such an enjoyable Sunday, but I reminded her we were missing beer.
The labor continued, and we started watching the late NFL game -- I think it was the Bengals. And then finally the fetal monitor started chirping -- meaning the fetus had some "distress."
Dr. S said he was ok with waiting, but I was already a PI lawyer with some malpractice experience, and knew the catastrophic effects that could come from not taking a baby out after distress. I was finally concerned, and told Dr. S, with Wifey's agreement: "We are NOT anti C section people!"
Upon hearing that, he called in Dr. Kenward to assist, and they brought Wifey into the delivery room, put up a sheet, and did what I called the Baby-ectomy. As soon as the beautiful baby girl was delivered, Dr. S flopped the grapefruit sized fibroid onto Wifey's belly, and said "There it is!" as if he was happy the diagnosis was confirmed. He tucked it back inside, saying it would shrink without the pregnancy hormones, and it did.
But meanwhile, we handed a bright eyed baby girl to Wifey, who asked me "Is she fine?" She was better than fine -- she was beautiful.
I had heard about the trite concept of love at first sight, and it finally happened to me. I was forever in love, unquestionably and without conditions, with this baby girl, whose first name got an M in honor of Wifey's aunt who had died in the Holocaust, Miriam, and whose middle name was an H in memory of my late Dad, Hyman.
I wish I could say that all went smoothly, and it did with D1, but NOT Wifey. A full day of Labor followed by major abdominal surgery took its toll -- causing a frantic, sad call to me at 3 the next morning from her, saying she KNEW she was dying -- no one had ever been in so much pain -- and would I promise to raise our new daughter with love, even though she would have no mother -- Wifey just KNEW she was going to die.
I asked to speak to the nurse, and I could almost HEAR her eye rolling, as she told me to go back to sleep, I would need it, and that Wifey was indeed clinically fine.
The next days in the hospital, D1 started nursing, though we had to help support her on Wifey, and Wifey joined the sad parade of new C Section Moms as they did their shuffle through the SMH halls, trying to expel the gas of the surgery, and recover.
We had one nice dinner in "The Stork Club," South Miami 's early attempt to bring labor and delivery upscale, though I doubt Wifey recalls much about it. They served decent chicken.
By the end of the week, I took home Wifey and D1 -- D1 safely in the car seat of our Mazda 626. I had brought home her blankets from the hospital, as someone had told us to do that so that our current children, Black Lab Midnight and Blonde Cocker Spaniel Alfred, would accept the new baby. They did -- both licked her profusely as they welcomed the new member of our pack.
And then, somehow, three and a half decades flew by. Three years and a few months later, D2 joined the band. Dogs joined us, too, and died. We moved from the little house in Kendall, to a newer, bigger house in Kendall, 2 miles west, which got "mistroyed," as D1 said, in Hurricane Andrew.
We moved to a condo on Brickell as storm refugees, then to Wifey's parents' house in Kendall as they fled to Pembroke Pines, then back to our West Kendall house, and finally, in early '01, to Villa Wifey.
D1 and D2's adoring Grandma Sunny died, in 2013, and then her Grandpa Richard a few years later, followed by adoring Sabta, Wifey's mother a few years after that. Sunny made it to 92, Richard to 90, and Rachel to 97 -- I hope the Ds get all their genetics for a long, long life.
Just the other day, we celebrated D1's birthday with her family during T Day. After, she wrote a thankful email to Wifey, calling her "Mommy." Wifey said she loves it when her adult daughter calls her "Mommy." Me, the wiseass, had to summon Notorious B.I.G, and ask to be called Big Poppa. But Dad or Daddy will do, from the formerly tiny girl I called Pipsqueak, since she was a little pipsqueak.
Long may you run, D1!
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