Tuesday, July 15, 2008

2. Aftershock

Immediately after delivery we are whisked to a luxurious shared room. A few feet away, on the other side of a curtain, we listen to a woman and her husband preparing to have a c-section to deliver twins. They are just moments away from the happiest day of their lives. It feels like we are the dark side of a nighmarish, living yin-yang. We keep things to a low murmur as we try to make sense of the new world. I'm just a simple caveman, I know nothing of your "airplanes" and your "Down syndrome."

Phone calls need to be made. But still, the words won't come. And we need more privacy. Somehow, we manage to convey the message to my wife's mom in a brief, whispered phone call. I send a flurry of text messages to my coworkers and friends (my thumbs still have their voices). I ignore incoming calls from my family, trying desperately to postpone the inevitable.

We finally move to a private room, and my sister calls. And for the very first time, I speak the words. The baton is passed. She carries it from there, sparing me the agony of reliving my "tiny moment" with each member of my family. So that is that.

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