She woke me gently just as she had in 1975, 1977 and 1981. I was aware of the sweet fragrance of her just washed hair and that glow. That certain aura reserved only for expectant mothers. “It’s time to go, Honey” she said with that same calm confidence I remembered from before. It’s 4:00 am March 11th 1984 and this will be our fourth and last little miracle. I knew the drill and placed the call to the girls who would watch over Nathan, Amy and Aaron as they slept unaware that their sister would soon make her journey to join them and in so doing would complete our family. We packed the items my wife had so meticulously planned for this momentous occasion and I remember chuckling to myself as she reminded me not to forget the cassette tape player, headphones, Anne Murray tape, and the baby powder for effleurage during labor. My wife and I had planned very carefully for this event. This was the last time. We wanted to get everything right. No mistakes. No surprises.
Ice. Thick, glistening, slippery translucent ice was everywhere and covered everything in sight! With the brisk rush of the wind I felt the first hint of alarm and noticed the concern in my wife’s eyes yet neither of us said anything. We calmly continued aware of the risk yet confident. We had planned for this. We had done this before. We had brought three children into the world successfully and were experienced parents. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts as we drove slowly through the sleeping town of Defiance carefully making our way to the hospital. I pulled up close to the entrance and reached for my wife’s arm as she stepped out of the car onto the parking lot, which with its sheen of ice was more like a skating rink. We struggled for sure footing, slipping and nearly falling more than once. Each of us shifted our individual position on the ice instinctively leaning against one another one step at a time, moving together feeling the tension of our different positions yet working together. We were two becoming one, seeking and finding the balance necessary to protect our daughter and prepare for her birth.
The doctor was leaving as we arrived. We reminded him this was my wife’s fourth child and that labor would pass quickly. He said all would be well and he would get a few hours sleep. This time the sense of alarm was greater, and harder to mask for both of us. Labor, what there was of it, went quickly. Anne Murray, sang well, and I used an entire container of baby powder massaging my wife’s abdomen as I marveled at her strength and courage through each contraction. Our daughter was ready to appear, and my wife was willing to cooperate, yet there was one problem. No doctor! I comforted and encouraged and coached my wife as our daughter became increasingly persistent. We focused upon one another, the two becoming one. My wife needed me. She could take no more. I turned to the staff and threatened to deliver my daughter myself. The time was right. She was ready to leave her mother. To wait any longer would not only threaten her mothers’ health but would cause our daughter harm. At that very moment the doctor arrived in the delivery room and we proceeded to welcome one very angry, feisty and beautiful little girl into our lives.
Abby fit in well with her brothers and sister. Each of them developed a distinct and special relationship with her. There was the usual sibling rivalry and competition for the attention of my wife and I. As parents, we worked hard to help each of our children to find their own unique sense of self and special attributes as they bumped along through the daily grind of life. Each of them presented their own special challenge to us as parents and we likewise wrestled with them doing our best to mold their character and encourage their spirit. One by one, they matured and grew independent. One by one, the day came they were ready to leave. Children became adults just as we hoped, just as we planned. One was no more special than the others. Each was remarkably distinct yet similar.
I’m standing in Abby’s living room gazing out the window and my thoughts are rushing like the wind through the fallen leaves of my memory of the last eighteen years. I know the drill. All the items we had packed so carefully for this momentous occasion have been delivered. I remember chuckling to myself about Abby and her mother standing in our kitchen counting the utensils and negotiating how many forks she could take. I had also been touched by the mementos and pictures of our family Abby had spirited away to her new home without our knowledge or permission. It’s 9:00 pm Sunday, August 25th, 2002 and Abby is our fourth and last. My wife and I had planned very carefully for this event. This was the last time. We wanted to get everything right. No mistakes. No surprises.
“It’s time to go, Honey” she said with that same calm confidence I remembered from before. Now it was my turn. I knew the pain of separating. We had done this before. We had launched three adults into the world successfully and were experienced parents. As we turned toward the door my wife took my arm each of us leaning against the other, moving and feeling the tension yet working together. We were two becoming one, seeking and finding the balance to launch our daughter. The time was right. She was ready to leave. To wait any longer would cause her harm. As we drove away, we were aware of the risks, yet calmly confident that this season of parenting was over. We were two becoming one.
Michael D. Griffith, Ph.D.
(992 words, 4 minutes)