I woke up that morning and headed into Portland. At the hospital, I checked in with Deb who was surprisingly calm for someone about to have her belly sliced open so two little people could be pulled out. It was early, so I went to get something to eat. In the cafeteria, I half-watched the TV. American troops were positioning themselves along the Iraqi border in Kuwait. The reporter was describing the scene and the feeling of anticipation that was building. War was coming, and so were my babies.
Just before 11 am, it was time. When I walked into the OR the place was bustling and Deb was hooked up to all the machines. All of a sudden it started. There was some clanking of tools and devices, doctor chatter, blood, one baby, crying, the other baby, more crying, cleaning, shock and awe! Everything went off without a hitch, and after it was all over Deb, still all doped up, looked up at me smiled and said, “My tummy feels so quiet.” And so it began.
Two weeks later I wrote an email to my family and friends. This is an edited excerpt:
“As I sit with them, I am filled with a love more intense than I knew possible. In such a short time my whole being has been spun right around. Everything is filtered through them now. I look down into their eyes and see the span of their lives stretched before them. I imagine them at different milestones, walking, talking, going to school, falling in love, looking into the eyes of their own children, growing old. I feel honored to have been given these two, just as I feel honored to have a wonderful wife like Deb. It is good to feel this love.
“And yet, the intense feeling of love is juxtaposed by the images from the war. At one o’clock in the morning, when I get up to feed the girls, I watch. When I let the dogs out, I watch. I just keep going back to it, (but I am seeing it differently than I could have before the girls.) I find myself acutely aware of the fact that each person involved in this war has, on some level, been loved or has loved in this same way. Many are parents asked to defend their way of life, fighting to ensure the future for their children. Each life is the same. Each child’s loss of a parent is the same, each spouse’s grief over the loss of a partner is the same.
“The war started the same day the babies were born. As we sat in our hospital room, tired and astonished by our own personal drama, the bombs began to fall. The TV showed us the explosions in Baghdad, the flashes of light and fires, the thudding booms, the columns of smoke. We watched the random car speeding down the deserted streets as the driver raced to find safety in a city where there was none. It was all there in the room with us as we held, fed and changed the girls for the first times. Deb looked over at me and said, ‘You know there are women and their husbands in the hospitals in Baghdad who have just given birth too. They are in the exact same place we are. They have to figure out when and how to feed their new baby, they have to learn about cleaning bums and changing diapers, but now on top of all that they are living in a city that is being bombed.’ That was when it became clear to me that in the end, we are, in fact, all the same — same in the best way possible. We often don’t see it, or can’t remember it, but under the dogma, the politics and the divisions we use to create our sense of self and belonging, I know we really are one.
“So I watch. I become engrossed in the ‘March to Baghdad’ and my head and heart start spinning. Then a baby cries and I am instantly brought back to MY life. I return to the reality in which I have influence and responsibility. Despite all the fears and uncertainty that this war and its repercussions brings, I look down into the eyes of my little girls and I have to have hope. All the other stuff falls away and I am left with HOPE.”
Five years later the war drags on. The babies have grown into girls. I have grown into a father. Like all first time parents my definition of patience, privacy and sleeping late have been forever altered. Despite the melting glaciers, political and civil strife around that globe, and gas at $3.25, I remain hopeful that somehow our human similarities will become more important than our differences, and hopeful that my children will be part of the struggle to lift people up and bring them together.
Brian Clark is the father of twin girls and is program manager for the STRONG Fathers Network, which supports men in their efforts to be skilled, active and strong parents. It is funded by York County Community Action Corp. and the U.S. Dept. of Health and Human Services. Brian’s views and opinions do not necessarily reflect the views of YCCAC.