The Elevator Ride

After my son was born, there was a whirlwind of activity and inactivity I’ve struggled to quite reconcile since. Everything was new, from feedings to diaper changes to his first bath to making sure he was breathing.

I know that we were in the hospital two nights—nearly three days. And yet I don’t remember how that amount of time passed, aside from sleep, lack-of-sleep stupor, and a handful of moments.

I recall a specific elevator ride, though. Not the first ride down to get the cooler and go-bag we’d left in the car, errantly assuming there’d be time to retrieve them after we’d settled into our active delivery room, nor the second ride down, carrying the placenta back to store in the trunk, nor the fried chicken run. There were probably others.

But my last elevator ride without Heather or Riley in that hospital saw me go down to the garage to fetch the car seat. It felt something like a low-key coming out party as a father, to publicly carry such a clear accessory to parenthood

I recall that a woman rode back up the floors with me—someone who worked at the hospital and was getting off a couple floors before me.

Work in a hospital and I have to assume you see people in all different states all the time, struck by good news or bad news, people who are sick or hurt or out of their minds.

She smiled and asked if we’d just had our first.

I told her yes.

I tried to communicate the challenges we’d faced in conceiving and the scary pregnancy and how Heather and I had talked about wanting children from early in our time together, as early as Skype dinner dates back when we were long distance. The sentiments came out as, “He’s all we ever wanted,” except my voice cracked before the words were all the way out and I could feel my eyes bubble with tears.

The woman didn’t say anything in return. In another second, we’d reached her floor and she silently slipped off. I don’t suspect I’ve seen her since.

I only know that I, who pride myself on keeping it together in all manner of public situations, couldn’t then, and couldn’t bring myself to care.

I stepped out of the elevator when I’d reached my floor, alone. I stepped into a new life.