Six years ago tonight Catherine and I walked over to the The Town & Country. We split an order of nachos. We walked over to the video store on Grafton St. and rented Message in a Bottle, the Kevin Costner movie, and then walked home and watched it.
We went to bed early, as Catherine was due to have labour induced the next morning — our as-yet-unnamed baby was two weeks late, and we’d waited as long as our OB/GYN advised was reasonable.
Throughout the night, Catherine had little contractions — I still have sheet of paper I wrote the times on — but nothing wild and closely spaced enough to suggest real labour was coming on.
Sunday morning we went to the hospital, and while I will spare you the details, the rest of the day, culminating in a “we’ve got to do this right now” C-section, was rather stressful all-round. We’ve lost track of the real value, but both Catherine and I remember him having a negative APGAR (which is not technically allowed).
We spent the next several days with Oliver in the NICU, hooked up to various machines and holding our breath to see how he would emerge from his sudden entry. By Tuesday it was clear that all systems had, as if by magic, powered up to normal. The tubes came out, the machines got turned off, and we finally got to hold Oliver in our arms.
We were so distracted by the utter reality of it all, that we forgot to give “Baby Male Miller” a name until Tuesday. By Wednesday, things had calmed down enough so that I could announce Oliver’s arrival to the world.
Oliver turns 6 years old tomorrow afternoon around 2:30 p.m. As he stands beside me as I type this, he emphatically states “after this day I am six!” It’s all somewhat miraculous to me that this all worked out as wonderfully as it has.
Happy birthday, Oliver.