The Big Man

When Sasha was born, like a lot of kids, she had to under the blue lights for a bit. Totally normal. She also had trouble latching on, and needed some feeding from a syringe. Also not that far out there. But when it’s your kid, “normal” doesn't mean that much, not when you’re sleep deprived, and I was bouncing back and forth between the hospital and home where Noah, then not quite two, was with the grandparents. I’d try to spend the night with Stacey and Sasha, then be home before she woke up, so she’d have a familiar face for breakfast, then sKpend the day tuckering her out so she’d sleep, then head back to be with Stacey, who was alone trying to figure out our new little worry.

I drove the road between our home and the hospital a lot those few days, always at night or in the wee hours, pitch dark, and the tape I had on in the car was Bruce Springsteen’s The Rising, and the song that reached out of there the most was “Counting on a Miracle”. In retrospect, an album about loss and memory and regret probably wasn’t the best thing to be listening to in any actual situation of emotional duress, especially when there’s a brand new little person that, sure, is just getting a little blue light and some help eating, but you, the new parent, you’ve failed this little person somehow, you don’t even know who she is yet, and now you don’t know if she’s going to make it. This is insane and crazy, of course, and many parents go through so much worse I can’t even imagine in, and this is on par with a little bit of blood the first time you trim their nails, but it doesn’t matter, not when it’s you and no sleep and it’s this brand new life.

I can never listen to “I don’t believe in magic, but for you I will” and the sax solo that comes wailing in behind those words without remembering that time, when I so helplessly needed to believe in magic.

Thanks, Big Man.