One of my earliest memories of my father is lodged in my heart and in my ears. I wasn’t more than four. I wrapped both of my bony arms wrapped around him as he sat on a couch, His Chicagoland family was visiting us in our tiny living room, and my dad’s body moved as he spoke and gestured. Italians can’t help that.
As my little body surfed his, I had this grown-up thought: his voice was special. I didn’t know why or how, but I decided that it was. It was rhythmical, resonant, and real. Sometimes, a melody lingered in his speech. Perhaps his humor made the room crackle with mirth. And as I grew older, I learned to recognize his philosophy of love and kindness in words and actions. Above all that, one thing was certain: my father’s voice emanated love to me.
So it’s fitting that on December 5th, 2006, my father sat in a rocking chair in the room about four feet away from me as I gave birth to Rachel, his first grand child. His cancer diagnosis earlier that year gave him no strength to hold my legs. He’s an actor, not a doctor. And he can’t relate like my mom could. So what did Dad do? Like writers who write what they know, he’s bound to do what he knows, and that’s to sing.
Clad in three layers of sweats and a baseball cap, he sat a rocking chair and chanted the rousing tune I remember at baseball games to rally the fans, ending in the word CHARGE. So every once in a while, when a big labor pain struck, I’d hear him sing, “Dum, dum, dum, dum; dum, dum, dum, dum; dum, dum, dum, dum; doo doo doo doot do doooo – charge!” He fist-pumped the air as he sang. I shall never forget this. Why? Because it’s funny, it’s real, and it’s my dad, cornball and all. He loved me, and he wasn’t going to let cancer keep him from watching my child arrive.
Labor continued into the wee small hours of December 6, and fatigue set in, but I couldn’t give up. It was time for Rachel to arrive.
Just before midnight, Dr. J offered to buy me breakfast if we could get this kid out before midnight. But Rachel seemed to be on her own terms, this independent soul. Shortly after one a.m., my husband Jim leaned over and said, “Melissa, they’re bringing in the warming table for the baby. We’re getting close.” I took a deep breath, asked for water, and watched the monitor for the next labor pain. When it hit, I pushed, and the baby’s head emerged, but it stayed suspended at the opening. The teammates in the room, along with Dad, cheered and clapped, seeing Rachel’s hairy head peek out.
“Come on Melissa, you’re soooo close! You can do it,” Sara, my brother’s longtime girlfriend, cried out.
“OK, Melissa, you’re gonna have to pull it from within. I know you’re tired, but you gotta finish this.” Jim looked directly into my eyes. With that look, I knew we were getting close…I heard my father humming the University of Minnesota’s Rouser, softly under his breath. Nobody gave up. Everything hinged on the next push.
At precisely 1:37 a.m., the last labor pain hit, I thrust with all my might, and the child inside twisted right out of me, smack into my doctor’s hands. Relief and bliss surrounded me. But one thought still lingered in my head after all that:
“Hey, is it still a girl?” I asked, wiping the sweat from my face.
“YES!” everyone shouted in unison!
I sank back onto the bed, relieved, exhausted, but very alert. Rachel Eleanor Reid weighed in at 7 lbs, 8 oz. My father stopped singing only to smile at the victory.
You see, midway through the pregnancy, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. I monitored my diet, managing the disease. If I hadn’t, I might have delivered a larger child. Luckily, that wasn’t the case. In fact, by the next morning, doctors ordered up labs on me and decided I didn’t have diabetes any longer.
When I held her for the first time, I saw that her eyes were clear and bright, calmly looking up at me. The splotches of blood on her fingernails made it look like she was already wearing red nail polish. So many parents and writers speak of the love and awe they feel when they hold their child for the first time. I didn’t: I was too exhausted. Yet I knew I had accomplished an enormous feat.
At 4 a.m., a nurse wheeled a drowsy Jim and Rachel out of the room, with me in a wheelchair right behind them. Within ten minutes, we were settled into our (much smaller) new room. The staff pulled out the hideaway bed for Jim, they placed Rachel into an infant bed, and I sat in my bed, taking a long, deep breath. I had just become a parent, and I couldn’t wait to share this with mom and dad for many years.
Two hours prior, I kissed my mother and father as they headed out. My father looked beat, and to be there at all was a gift and a risk as a Stage IV cancer patient. The smile on his face as he bent over to kiss me was a loud cheer of love for me and now Rachel.