Birth And Hope.

On the 13th of January 1987 I was ready to battle the world or even some hungry creatures of the night; such as diabetic vampires knowing that my sugar levels were well above normal due to an overindulgence of fully-fledged coca cola. Any attempt to suck me dry of my blood was bound to fail and I would be victorious in the end. Diabetes, now that’s another blog! It could be the abominable snowman, for it had been snowing rather heavily for some time now, offering him some good coverage if a surprise attack was his well contemplated plan although misplaced for nothing was going to get in my way. You see, I was about to become a father, not just any father but the best in this world, hell the best in any world! It did not occur to me that I was not the first and was unlikely to be the last to be given the new name of Dad. In the early hours of the 14th of January the monsters did come but in the form of my wife and labour pains. My outer reassurance was soon being chipped away by an inner panic. For what had I done to this woman, this woman I loved, and more importantly what was she now going to do to me? ’ So with the help of a rather nervous taxi driver we made our way through the deep snow to Ipswich hospital. On arrival at the maternity ward my wife in no uncertain terms proclaimed her ever growing need to push. I quickly scanned the area behind me for any open windows knowing we were several floors up and I was no longer feeling quite so invincible. However I was able to breathe a sigh of relief when one was not found. The reluctant midwife finally gave in to the pressure being thrown at her and after further examination announced that my wife was ‘fully dilated’. The baby was coming, yes it was coming and I was a new age man who would be there every step of the way, every controlled breath and every contraction. So I sat there on an old chair beside my wife, sipping a glass of water. It’s not so bad I thought! She did not seem too impressed with my new regained inner calm for my hand was now being crushed in an unforgiving hand lock. So if anyone tells you that men cannot possibly know the pain of childbirth, they lie! In what seemed to be a life time, but was in fact only three hours, I found myself sitting in that same chair looking down at such a perfect baby girl, albeit a little yellow one, resting in my arms (Aimee). Her small hand gripping the one still functioning finger left by her mother. A tear threatened to show itself from the corner of my eye and for a moment I had it all! We all look for some kind of meaning to our lives, we long for success and even recognition. As a writer I want people to like my work and be eager for more. It is that need to fill a worth and pride in ourselves which can make or break us! Are we however missing the point, for how could we ever top the magical gift of creating a life?

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