At the time of 2:00 a.m. on a day in May in the year 2012, amniotic fluid drenched the carpet in a hallway of an 11th floor apartment on Walker Avenue.
I was excited. I was scared. I was unprepared.
By 2:00 p.m. I was exhausted. Being a birth coach is hard work! It’s especially hard for a person as empathetic as I am. By 3:00 p.m. I was in extreme pain, suffering from a migraine. The lack of sleep, the constant doling out of ice chips, and the extreme outpouring of emotions had taken their toll.
“Go home, honey,” she said. “Get some rest,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
I went home to the soaked carpet knowing it had been the best day of my life, knowing I had experienced a miracle, knowing what it meant to love and be loved, and knowing that I had become a dad.
That’s the story of my daughter’s birth. Is it accurate? Is it embellished? Is it true? That is for the reader to decide. But I will tell you this, and it’s a truth I was reminded of this past Sunday: There are truths in the stories we tell.
After telling a story, my friend Hermione succinctly said:
Stories bring us together.
And when a rock-climbing, rebellious, spiritual, and insightful Kiwi tells stories, the truths become clearer.