A Line in the Sand
Up until the age of 38 at no point in my life did I experience a happier moment than the moment my daughter was born. Then it happened once more when my son was born. Nothing has compared to those two separate occasions, the first one in Belfast, Northern Ireland and the second one in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Canada.
A week before Maggie’s birth in Belfast I had taken a friend of ours to the hospital for the birth of her daughter. She and her husband didn’t own a car, and they didn’t drive anyway, so I was asked to be on taxi duty. I drove Elizabeth McCrum to the “Mater” unit of Belfast City Hospital slowly---in first gear all the way---gripping the steering wheel and hoping we got there in time. We did.
I left Elizabeth at the door with a tall, matronly Irish nurse and then returned the following week with my own wife, Charlotte, handing her off to the same nurse who, at that point, was somewhat perplexed since the same guy delivered two expectant mothers-to-be to the hospital within a matter of days.
Maggie was a delightful baby. She giggled and cuddled, slept without fussing and she loved having her nightly bath. We’d put her plastic bath tub in front of the fireplace in our enormous old flat in the Malone area of Belfast and she’d splash and coo in the warm water before getting dried off in a big fluffy towel. Then it was into diapers and a one-piece striped sleep outfit that made her look like a bee.
Very early on we noticed how energetic she was, kicking her legs and arching her back when she was placed on her stomach.
I don’t know who came up with this “exercise” first---myself or her mother---but when she was lying on her stomach, if you placed your hand against her feet she would thrust her legs out, launching herself along like an inch worm.
When she was about a month old she began to have crying episodes that seemed like she was in pain. She would be inconsolable for a few minutes until Charlotte got her settled into nursing and then she seemed to calm down.
But after a few days we noticed a small bump in her groin. If you pushed on it, it would disappear and this, too, would stop the crying episodes. However, we both knew something wasn’t right and one Sunday evening we phoned our friend Aisling Russell, a family doctor, and she came over right away and examined her.
“She has a hernia,” Aisling calmly told us. “I will phone Mr. Brown tomorrow and refer her to him immediately. He is the best pediatric surgeon in Northern Ireland. This needs to be taken care of right away.”
Surgeon? Our newborn needs a surgeon? Was our “launching” exercise what caused this? Is it genetic? Is she okay? Will she be okay?
We sat in the living room holding Maggie that night. I don’t remember sleeping at all. I think Charlotte nodded off but Maggie stayed cuddled in her arms and seemed content.
In the morning Aisling phoned us with an appointment time later that day to see Mr. Brown (in Britain and Ireland surgeons and dentists do not use the title “Dr.”). When he examined her he told us he would operate on her the next day, and said he’d repair both sides even though there was no clear indication that a second hernia was present. He would arrange for Charlotte to stay in hospital with her for an overnight after the surgery. Maggie was six weeks old.
We checked into the hospital the next morning with a very hungry baby and were assigned a bed in a ward with another baby who had had surgery the previous day. His father, a big Irish guy, sat beside him with his hand on the bed next to his son. I remember thinking that the father’s hand was almost as big as the tiny boy he was watching over.
Some time passed when a young doctor---a resident---entered the room and asked if we were Maggie Jones’ parents. We replied that we were and he began:
“Mr. Brown has requested that I speak to you. I am asking for your permission to allow me to perform the operation on your daughter.”
My head was swimming. All my life I had accommodated anyone and everyone. I always let others “go first”, get the last piece of pie, take the best seat in the movie house, get their way, and so on. Throughout my life I would “give in”.
But at that moment as I looked at Maggie in Charlotte’s arms, something snapped that forever changed me, and my firm reply was:
“No, I won’t agree to that. Mr. Brown will be operating on our daughter.”
© Kent Jones 2016
Up until the age of 38 at no point in my life did I experience a happier moment than the moment my daughter was born. Then it happened once more when my son was born. Nothing has compared to those two separate occasions, the first one in Belfast, Northern Ireland and the second one in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, Canada.
A week before Maggie’s birth in Belfast I had taken a friend of ours to the hospital for the birth of her daughter. She and her husband didn’t own a car, and they didn’t drive anyway, so I was asked to be on taxi duty. I drove Elizabeth McCrum to the “Mater” unit of Belfast City Hospital slowly---in first gear all the way---gripping the steering wheel and hoping we got there in time. We did.
I left Elizabeth at the door with a tall, matronly Irish nurse and then returned the following week with my own wife, Charlotte, handing her off to the same nurse who, at that point, was somewhat perplexed since the same guy delivered two expectant mothers-to-be to the hospital within a matter of days.
Maggie was a delightful baby. She giggled and cuddled, slept without fussing and she loved having her nightly bath. We’d put her plastic bath tub in front of the fireplace in our enormous old flat in the Malone area of Belfast and she’d splash and coo in the warm water before getting dried off in a big fluffy towel. Then it was into diapers and a one-piece striped sleep outfit that made her look like a bee.
Very early on we noticed how energetic she was, kicking her legs and arching her back when she was placed on her stomach.
I don’t know who came up with this “exercise” first---myself or her mother---but when she was lying on her stomach, if you placed your hand against her feet she would thrust her legs out, launching herself along like an inch worm.
When she was about a month old she began to have crying episodes that seemed like she was in pain. She would be inconsolable for a few minutes until Charlotte got her settled into nursing and then she seemed to calm down.
But after a few days we noticed a small bump in her groin. If you pushed on it, it would disappear and this, too, would stop the crying episodes. However, we both knew something wasn’t right and one Sunday evening we phoned our friend Aisling Russell, a family doctor, and she came over right away and examined her.
“She has a hernia,” Aisling calmly told us. “I will phone Mr. Brown tomorrow and refer her to him immediately. He is the best pediatric surgeon in Northern Ireland. This needs to be taken care of right away.”
Surgeon? Our newborn needs a surgeon? Was our “launching” exercise what caused this? Is it genetic? Is she okay? Will she be okay?
We sat in the living room holding Maggie that night. I don’t remember sleeping at all. I think Charlotte nodded off but Maggie stayed cuddled in her arms and seemed content.
In the morning Aisling phoned us with an appointment time later that day to see Mr. Brown (in Britain and Ireland surgeons and dentists do not use the title “Dr.”). When he examined her he told us he would operate on her the next day, and said he’d repair both sides even though there was no clear indication that a second hernia was present. He would arrange for Charlotte to stay in hospital with her for an overnight after the surgery. Maggie was six weeks old.
We checked into the hospital the next morning with a very hungry baby and were assigned a bed in a ward with another baby who had had surgery the previous day. His father, a big Irish guy, sat beside him with his hand on the bed next to his son. I remember thinking that the father’s hand was almost as big as the tiny boy he was watching over.
Some time passed when a young doctor---a resident---entered the room and asked if we were Maggie Jones’ parents. We replied that we were and he began:
“Mr. Brown has requested that I speak to you. I am asking for your permission to allow me to perform the operation on your daughter.”
My head was swimming. All my life I had accommodated anyone and everyone. I always let others “go first”, get the last piece of pie, take the best seat in the movie house, get their way, and so on. Throughout my life I would “give in”.
But at that moment as I looked at Maggie in Charlotte’s arms, something snapped that forever changed me, and my firm reply was:
“No, I won’t agree to that. Mr. Brown will be operating on our daughter.”
© Kent Jones 2016