On November 27, 2024, Cait and I drove to the hospital to meet our son for the first time. He'd arrive three weeks early via a scheduled C-section. Unlike the movies, where a car speeds through traffic, our drive was calm.
The hospital receptionist handed us two nametag-sized pink stickers. We would not be allowed to enter or reenter the labor and delivery unit if we lost them. Before I could question the logic, we fastened our new accessories and made our way to the elevators.
Staff milled about the hallway. Whether at the start or end of a long shift, fatigue hung on their shoulders. A glance at our stickers and smiles spread across their faces. They were sincere but felt misplaced. These strangers saw certainty in our future, where I could only see questions.
On the fifth floor, we checked in with the nurses' station and waited. They came to collect Cait, and in exchange, I was given a set of scrubs, told to change, and take a seat outside the operating room. I pulled up the pants. My entire body slipped into one pant leg. These were cut for a man triple my size. I fixed the mistake, donned the lunch-lady hairnet, a trash-bag-sized shirt, and swished into a sparse and quiet hallway.
My interim destination was an old stool. One that took any shift in my weight as an opportunity to dump me on the floor.
The O.R. door cracked open. Strangers in appropriately sized scrubs waved me in. The team shuttled around, speaking their own language about what they needed next. Beeps of varied intervals and pitches filled the air. Alarms of no consequence rang, were silenced, and came back to life a moment later. I couldn't shake the thought: Am I in the way? Am I supposed to be here?
I rounded the surgical divide to find Cait's top half. Next to her, another stool waited for me. This one behaved itself with a sturdier seat.
Cait wasn't too freaked out on the table, aided by her constitution and a generous dose of painkillers. I played Let's Go Surfing by the Drums to ensure we didn't spend too much time thinking about what "a little pressure" meant.1
A song or two later, the cries started. Ronan was here. We could hear the nurses commenting on his chubby cheeks. He was brought around to us and placed in my arms. A doctor snapped pictures with my phone. I beamed, but it was a conscious effort to recreate what I'd seen in so many others' photos.
It scared me to hold my son and not feel overcome with love. All I ever heard was that your world changes the instant you lay eyes on your child. I didn't feel that. I was relieved that he was healthy. That Cait had made it through the delivery, but nothing inside me had changed.
Ronan returned to the doctors for measurements. Behind me, someone mentioned trouble breathing. Ronan would need the NICU if he didn't figure it out soon. The words drove alarm through me. The tone confused me. It sounded as if the doctor described a mediocre sandwich to no one in particular. My adrenaline-flooded system had no idea how to respond. Ronan thankfully had it under control before I could react.
I left for the recovery room as they put Cait back together. There I waited with our luggage. When Cait and Ronan joined me, I took Ronan in my arms and fed him for the first time. Still, all I felt was hesitation. Am I doing this right? Am I helping him?
The numbness in Cait's legs faded, and we were shown to our hospital room. A new routine filled the first day: feed, diaper, onesie, swaddle, sleep, repeat. Each step, an all-consuming task, like a final exam. By nightfall, the hesitation eased. Curiosity crept in. A dialogue began: his cues, my guesses. Every few hours, Ronan rested in my arms. A too-big hospital cap covered his eyes, and one soft cheek pressed against my chest, his small mouth parted. He fell asleep. I fell into fatherhood.
1 A band consistently in Cait's Spotify Wrapped. I have no evidence to support this, but I'd guess Ronan is the only baby delivered to this soundtrack.