My baby: my son

In advanced labour with my first child, a voice suddenly emanated from the intercom, “Baby in distress, baby in distress!” Announced urgently and repeatedly, red strips near the ceiling simultaneously flashed the imperative message.

Despite drowning in a haze of dazed, excruciating agony, enormous compassion for that baby, that mother, enveloped me. Not for a moment did I realise “that baby” was mine, “that mother” was me. Seconds later, a mask placed over my face ensured oblivion.
Radiant mother imprinting kisses on baby’s head whilst beaming at adoring husband? Not me. Struggling desperately from the mask-induced fog, I called frantically, “My baby! Where is my baby? Is it all right?”
A nurse hurriedly assured me that my baby boy was fine, indicating a cot at the opposite side of the room.
“But I want him. I want my baby,” I cried yearningly. She explained that no, I couldn’t see my baby; he needed to be in an incubator immediately.
My husband waited outside, on the alert. My instinct is always to spare others’ pain, so I asked for him only when the ordeal ended. He accompanied me as I was wheeled to the ward and then someone brought him to see his baby son.
“Is he ok? Is he ok?” I pleaded when he reappeared.
“Yes, he’s fine, he’s grand.” Hesitantly, he added that he had a little mark on his forehead. Now, that actually was a temporary mark caused by the forceps but did anyone bother explaining that to a 23-year-old young man? No. And because of such inexcusable neglect, he carried the burden of what he thought was a horrific birthmark until all became clear when we both got to see our first-born. Years later, I can still vividly visualise my baby’s chart, “Resuscitation time: two minutes, 30 seconds”.
My room (with a glass window) was beside the nursery, where, sensibly, the babies slept at night, allowing exhausted mothers peaceful slumber. Babies cried constantly without disturbing me. Occasionally, though, I’d wake suddenly, jump up, rush to the window and was always correct in recognising my baby’s cry. I hadn’t needed him to be placed in my arms to bond – permanently.    
So, why am I now recollecting this momentous event?
Well, fast-forward many years. My “baby,” a fine, upstanding young man, changed jobs recently. His customary smart/casual dress code required a quick switch to sartorial elegance. Put simply, he needed to be suited and booted.
His dad, no slouch in this regard, was consulted. At 1.45pm on the day he was to begin, my phone rang. Pleased, I saw my “baby’s” name. Playfully, I enquired, “What are you wearing?” a question never, ever asked before.
“Well, Mom, funny you should ask…” And, to my absolute shock and horror, he informed me that he was wearing a hospital gown. At the medical the previous day for the new job, his blood pressure was discovered to be almost twice the normal reading – he should visit his GP immediately. The GP ordained instant hospitalisation.
In the greater scheme of events, this is hardly earth-shattering, except to his mom.
I was actually present as they wheeled him hither and thither for a battery of tests. How to describe my feelings and thoughts as I followed my “baby” in his wheelchair down endless corridors?
A sense of unreality? You bet. One thought predominated. Fifteen months ago, I was learning painfully to negotiate my way around on crutches following double hip replacements. Who knew then that I would be capable of walking tall, straight and smartly after my “baby?” But in these circumstances? My gosh. Reaching X-ray, I mentioned this and he replied that he was thinking exactly the same as he heard my heels clicking along.
Waiting in the ante-room as he underwent a test, I was surprised when instructions issued over the intercom from the inner sanctum, “Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out…”
High up on the wall, a red sign flashed, “Do Not Enter. Radiation”. And, naturally, listening and watching, scary words delivered in a similar monotone concerning my “baby” echoed down the years and I visualised again that earlier frightful, flashing, red warning sign. The irony.
My “baby” is the essence of organisation. He lives life in the belief that A, B and C will yield X, Y and Z results. I have always been aware of this and dreaded the day when he would discover that life does not unfold like a well-prepared spreadsheet.
Diagnosis: Primary blood pressure; no medical cause.

My prayer for him is:
“May the Angel of Wildness disturb the place
Where your life is domesticated and safe
Take you to the territories of true otherness
Where all that is awkward in you
Can fall into its own rhythm…”
John O’Donohue