Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [89]
Somehow I was able to squeeze in time to write a book with Billy Mills, entitled Wokini. Though it would end up being the first work I’d ever publish, I was under no illusions that it had to do with the quality of my writing. Rather, its merit derived from who Billy was.
In September, we rushed to the hospital when labor pains began. It was a fast labor; Cat dilated quickly, and was nearly ready to deliver by the time we reached the hospital. Cat was in back labor—the baby was facing the wrong way—and in immense pain. There was a mad scramble as the room began to be readied, but moments after the doctor arrived, the baby’s heart suddenly slowed.
By the looks on the doctor’s and nurse’s faces, I knew it was serious. There was a chance we would lose another baby.
All at once, the world seemed to shrink; all I could think about was Cat and the baby she carried inside her. There is a panic that comes in moments like those, one that squeezes the heart with a feeling of utter helplessness. I barely remember the heated rush of activity as the doctor swung into action; I stood off to the side, praying as I’d never prayed before.
The doctor was good, and a moment later I was a father. But the baby’s skin was gray, and for the longest moment, he made no sound at all. Later, we’d learn that he was anemic and that he’d bled back through the umbilical cord. But at the time, I simply wanted to hear the cry of life.
And then, after what seemed like forever, I finally did.
Within a few minutes—minutes that seem far longer when it’s actually happening—the doctor assured us our son would be fine, and for the first time I relaxed enough to realize that we’d actually become parents. Cat held the baby against her. We named him Miles Andrew, and the first person I called was Micah.
“I’m a father!” I screamed into the receiver. “I have a son!”
Micah whooped on the other end. “Congratulations, Daddy! How’s mama doing?”
“She’s doing great—and thankfully the baby is, too. But you’ve got to get down here! You’ve got to see this little guy! He’s so cute!”
He laughed again. “I’m on my way, little brother. I’m on my way.”
He was the first one to reach the hospital, and after taking one look at Miles, he turned to me.
“Why, he looks just like me.”
I slapped him on the back. “You should only be so lucky. You might be handsome, but you don’t hold a candle to this guy!”
Despite the new life of fatherhood I was suddenly leading, my brother and I continued to make time to be together. For a short while, he helped me with my orthopedic business, but by the end of the year I eventually decided to give it up. With a new child at home, I needed something more stable, and I took a job as a pharmaceutical representative with Lederle Labs in early 1992. It was the first time in my life in which I’d officially be earning above minimum wage. I was twenty-six years old.
But if the baby—and my radically transformed life—was enough to help me keep from dwelling on mom, my dad continued to experience intense periods of ups and downs. The good mood he’d had over the summer was replaced with a funk, then replaced again with optimism. It had reached the point where we didn’t know what to expect when we went to see him, and both Micah and I wondered aloud whether he was manic-depressive.
My sister, too, seemed to be having a rough time, struggling to find herself as many young adults do. Never a great student, she dropped out of college to work full-time, then proceeded to quit her job a couple of weeks later. From there, she wandered from one job to the next, working as