A Baby is Born

7:10 a.m. November 28

The sun has risen and traffic outside Room 4 in Labor and Delivery at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan is officially jammed with taxis and Ubers and police cars and silly drivers honking their horns for God knows what reason. The 20-something-looking anesthesiologist just started his shift and Katie is his first epidural of the morning. Jason and I stand on the other side of the curtain near the door. The pain is getting bad; her moans rip me up. Instinctually, I ask Jason, who may or may not be a believer, to pray with me. We bow our heads and close our eyes: 

“Dear God, thank you for being us today, and always. We ask that you keep Katie and the baby safe, healthy, and out of harm’s way. We thank you for your love and for listening to our prayers. Amen.” 

Short and simple. Instantly, a wave of calm comes over me and I know that daughter and the baby are going to be OK. 

The contractions ease up following the epidural and Katie uses the opportunity to rest.

“It’s going to be a long morning,” Jason says, easing back into the birthing partner’s lounge chair.

“I don’t know,” I respond, giving my daughter a kiss on her forehead. “You’re doing great, Katie. Your baby boy will be here soon.” 

I walk back to the lobby, grab some water, research my new grandson’s astrology sign, then Jason texts me, “Her contractions are stronger!”

8 a.m.

My daughter’s grunt is animalistic and unmistakable to a mother who has given pre-epidural birth to three children and witnessed the birth of four of her five grandchildren.

“Something’s different,” she says.

“When did the nurse last check you? How dilated were you?

“About 15 minutes ago. I was five centimeters,” she says as the pain subsides. 

“I’ll get the nurse.”

I look down the hall and interrupt two nurses exchanging information about a patient. 

“My daughter’s ready to deliver!”

“OK,” they say, promising to get help.  

Eight minutes pass. 

I walk into the hallway again. “She’s ready to push! She needs help—NOW!” 

They knew by my tone and face that I wasn’t screwing around. One of the nurses yells to her colleagues huddled around the nurse’s station, “She’s ready!” Two nurses and a doctor bolt toward Room 4, one of them wheeling a draped birthing cart. 

I’m annoyed they didn’t move their butts sooner, but grateful they finally listened. (Next time I advocate on behalf of a loved one, I’ll be less friendly and more insistent.)

Two nurses, a resident-doctor, and his supervisor, Momma-Me, Jason, and Katie inhabit the 200-square-foot room.

Katie is in full throttle pushing mode until the doctor gently touches the baby’s thick black hair. He asks her to wait while he gets into place to deliver her little boy, “I don’t want the baby dropping on the floor.”

“Next contraction,” a nurse says, “push as hard as you can.”

She follows their lead, but I can tell she’s exhausted.

“One more push,” a nurse with a Jamaican accent says, “and baby will be in your arms.” 

My daughter summons an ancient, Herculean force and my grandson surfs a current of a warm, wild, bloody river. He’s wailing. And Santa Claus red. And attached to the placenta still inside his cave home. He is perfect—toes, fingers, a black wig of hair and all the apparatus’ a guy needs to succeed in life. We’re all in tears, especially my daughter who is crying tears of relief and joy. The nurse puts him up to her cheeks and she wraps her arms around her sweet angel and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. 

8:30 a.m., November 28, 2023

My fifth grandchild, Boden Blue Kwok, was born on a sunny, cold day that required gloves, a knit hat, and double layers. I don’t know what else was going on in the world that day except we were all tired, elated—no, ecstatic—that a healthy little boy came into our lives and now we get to spend the rest of our lives getting to know him, love him, and spoil him. 

Honestly, I doubt that life could get much better than this. Holding 8-pound, 1-ounce, 20.5 inches long, Boden Blue; Grandma’s boy who has loved him the moment she knew of his existence is now holding our expanding family’s blessing in the flesh. 

When people say there are no words, there aren’t. This balloon-in-your-chest buoyant, uplifting, expansive, warm South Seas of unconditional love feeling is brighter than the brightest Christmas star. This feeling of loving forever and beyond, of willingly giving your right and left arm, your legs, your torso, your eyes—your everything—for another soul is what everything—EVERYTHING—is about. To love, through thick and thin, through Life’s Winters and Summers, is The Prescription, The Cure. 

While we found Love through the eyes of a child, the Love of a favorite lagoon, the sight of an aging Monarch, the discovery of a curious roadrunner on the porch of your mother’s home, a phone call from an intuitive high school chum who senses you need a friend, are manifestations of Love. 

This, of all seasons, whether you celebrate Hanukah, Christmas, Kwanza, the Winter Solstice, Santa, or all or none of the above, is a time to be porous, to see, hear, feel, give, and believe in hope and possibility, knowing that each one of us is loved beyond all understanding, loved by a force mightier than anything we can imagine. But loving a baby, well, that comes pretty damn close.