"Strength," the kind stranger told me. "You're going to need a lot of strength."
As I watched him cradle and rock his screaming baby, a look of anguish strewn across his fatigued face, I wondered what that meant.
Physical strength? Do I need to hit the gym and turn my shoestring arms into tree trunks to be a good Father? Obviously not. I knew he was referring to mental strength in the way he was holding back the tears, keeping them in the dark folds underneath his eyes as supposed to letting them run down his sunken cheeks - and so I wondered more about how one measures mental strength?
How does one acquire mental strength in preparation for Fatherhood, Parenthood? And once acquired, how do you know if it's enough?
The kind stranger was then joined by his wife, who looked in need of a hot shower and a three day sleep. She was handed her now calm newborn in a way that was like passing a burning hot dish and just like that, his responsibility had been dissolved.
They exchanged a look, passing an unspoken blame in the space between them. Neither of them smiled. He got up, picked up several duffle bags and hooked them on his shoulder. He looked at me, showed me a nervous smile and together, they left the hospital.
In the air they left behind, the fragrance of their fear lingered.
It's OK to be afraid though, isn't it? After all, you are solely responsible for the life of another human being. A vulnerable, weak, frightened little human being who is about to be hit with the overpowering sights and smells of a new world. And their only safety net is your patient and warm embrace. It's a pretty scary thought: The entire emotional and physical wellbeing of a baby is dependable on you and your partner. A single wrong decision is the difference between life and death. That's terrifying.
But with that fear, there comes a desire to flee. Is that what I saw in the stranger's eyes? Were they shifting left and right to look for a quick exit? Is that what he meant by strength? Was he trying to fight the urge to flee? Does it really get that difficult?
I left the hospital cafe with my Latte and headed back to the Maternity Ward to join my wife as we awaited our turn to become new parents.
She was drowsy from the medicine but she still managed a smile. I hid the anxiety in my eyes but I knew she could see it. In a good marriage, love can uncover every emotion without a single word being spoken. You just have to be willing to look.
She asked me if I was OK and my answer was what she wanted to hear, moments away from her unplanned C Section. (She'd ask me about it months later, if I was OK and I'd tell her the truth about my encounter with the stranger). I squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. It was weak from the medicine but firm from her will. Her eyes were languid and so she closed them, welcoming the peace that the darkness brought.
I watched her there, proud of all that she had accomplished. Strength. She had shown gallons of it throughout her pregnancy. Can it be measured like that? Gallons? I imagined water gushing over jagged rocks and cascading miles down into a river below. Water falling, flowing, never ending.
The nurse joined us and gently awoke my wife from her transient rest.
"Are you ready, Mrs. Puri?" She asked, wide eyed and brimming with compassion.
She responded with a dreamy nod and with that, the nurse released the bed from its breaks and wheeled her to the operating theatre. I was never very good at ice skating, but using the protective covers that wrapped around my shoes, I remember gliding across the well polished hospital floor alongside the bed. Nerves will do that to you.
A picture was taken to immortalized the moment.
The flash from the camera seemed to move us through time, because the next memory is of my wife lying on the operating table - flash flash - the Surgeon waving his gloved hands in time to classical music, clutching a scalpel like a baton, orchestrating his team this way.
Adrenaline is a wicked chemical. The lights from above were all-consuming. The music they played seem to harmonise with my heartbeat. I was completely immersed in every sight, sound and scent. Gibberish was being spoken amongst the professionals in bassy murmurs. Then there was the clang of the surgical instruments against metal plates. The Crescendo.
I watched the whole procedure. Saw what seemed like vital organs being pulled out from inside of my wife. Then there was silence. A tiny gasp of delight from the Doctor. Then came the screams from our newborn daughter. Fast acting hands passed her, weighed her, washed her and dressed her. She was then placed in my arms. My wife watched in druggy wonderment.
Our daughter. Her eyes were closed. Her face was red. Her lips were blue. She wailed so much, it was like to she wept to all of life's troubles. I was terrified. When I looked up, flash, another picture was taken but I had smiled just in time. When I look back at that picture, I couldn't see the fear I was feeling. My face was alive with happiness.
I looked at her, after my picture had been taken, admired her tiny face and tiny features. I held a life in my hands that we were going to be responsible for. How she thinks, how she feels, how she navigates her way through the day will all be dictated by us, by what we teach her and what we show her.
Yes, I was scared. But that fear, the longer I held her, began to manifest itself into something else. Strength. I welcomed the fear because it would be the fuel to my desire to succeed. The fear would keep me on high alert; it would lurk in the shadows behind me, making sure that I stay in the light and strive to do better, to be better.
And as the strength gathered momentum, there wasn't a single bone in my body that desired to flee. I wanted to get closer. Closer to her, closer to understanding her and closer to understanding how to become a good parent.
For me then, strength became a measurement of how afraid I was. The more I feared, the stronger I would become.
