I was born 2 months early. In the early 70s, such a premature birth meant a helicopter ride to New York City, a month-long separation from my mother, and a high likelihood of a short and brutish life.
That I write this now suggests that I beat the odds and survived those early struggles for breath. But, I always wonder…was it just dumb luck? Was it fate? Was it destiny? Or something else altogether?
Having a wife who specializes in bringing new life into the world, I have learned about all the amazing technological advancements that have enabled us to lower the fetal mortality rate. I have also learned about the power of human touch and skin-to-skin contact, all things that increase the chances of early birds like me living long enough to get the proverbial worm.
But back in the 70s, at least in the US, we were shipped off to specialized hospitals and severed from our parents. I can imagine the whirring of incubators, the sounding of various alarms, the incessant flashing of warning lights, and have to wonder about the effect those lights and sounds had on my development, my shyness, my seeking out quiet in most noisy social situations. How did I last through that mad cacophony?
There are tales that my dad visited me, making the 3-hour round trip drive to the city and back again, everyday while I lay prone beneath the various gizmos of the NICU. Having no real memory of these early days cannot stop me from stitching together a likely story — how my very emotional and passionate father watched from behind glass, compulsively picking at his cuticles, pacing restlessly in a brown sports coat a shade too big, willing me to breath, to live, to feel as he feels.
None of that may be true, but then again it may. In any case, despite our many troubles as I grew older, I want to believe it; especially now. I want to believe.
I want there to be a special connection between us. I want to believe in those special moments forged at the hospital and affirmed as he would cradle me tightly in blankets and take long walks around the house in the bleak midwinter. I want to feel the walls of our house and my heart shake as he stamped my new life with his passionate shouts:
“Bring Me My Boy!”