Miracle

You are only one day old to me today, Daragh. I have only known you for one day as I write.

This morning Aifric's rummaging woke me a little bit before the half seven alarm I had set. (Yes, I admit, I did fall asleep at some stage. Peace descended here in The Bailey too, as well as on that nice room where your mother slept peacefully.)

But yes, also, Aifric, your full-of-life sister was on the march early, sounding out what has become in here, her trademark rattle of the plastic colouredy, Little Tikes menagerie of noise.

I could tell that poor Caomhán knew his sleep was coming to an end. He was hearing Aifric's cacophony too, and I could see that mature nature in him kick in - feeling like a responsible adult would, that he'd have to forego a preference for more sleep in favour of rising to respond to the needs of the infant.

I chastise myself sometimes, Daragh, for being too straight with you all. Like this moment. Why does little Caomhán seem so mature? Seem so full of responsibility? Why can't he just not care - not have a 'care in the world'? Should I have told him about you ... when it seems to burden him with care, and worry, and a need to take on the unrest of adults?

But then I think of you more. And reaslise it cannot be any other way. Sharing the burden in whatever way comes naturally is part of being a family. We don't hold important things back from each other. We share the truth in the most loving way we can with you, our children, as much as your Mam and I share with each other. That is how we go on: sharing, loving, healing, nurturing.

Thank you Daragh, for another wisdom with which I can proceed. For coming to me as the purest friend; a soul mate for life to whom I can tell everything, without recourse to coloured arcs of words or language.

I digress with too much waffle. Enough of coloured arcs - life is much more simple. I need to tell you more about your family.

It was a school morning in here, so, you see, we all had to get up for school. So that's what we all did this morning before I made my way in to see you for the once and only time I would ever lay eyes on you.

With Éabha and Caomhán (to make a long story short) safely delivered to their classes (Aifric came too, in my arms - boy does she weigh a bit after a walk over the hill to the school!), and after Yvonne came to look after the same Aifric, I drove to the hospital to see you, and to take your mother home.

I bought her some flowers - your mother - nice ones: lilys and roses, because that's what all Dads do when they're going in to bring the Mammys and babies home. I know, becasue I did it before with Éabha, Caomhán and Aifric. So it was no different with you, Daragh.

I walked up the long corridor leading to the babies' section in UHG. That corridor has seen many new young lives through to the big world outside - a big world that you will never need to worry about, Daragh, but may need to watch over for us.

In the nice room in St. Monica's, your mother was folding her clothes to leave. She seemed very much relaxed with the world. (She told me later that she had woken at 6am. Someone had opened the curtains a bit after that, and she had just looked out for ages at the lovely morning, sunny and fresh as it was, with more nice cleansing showers.) It was like an ordeal was over, and someone had already quietly and lovingly started a long process of gently cooling and cleansing her pain. It was like that someone was sent by you, and you were everywhere and you were everything that we were.

I gave her the flowers, and, you know, it was just like a day (or the three days) before, when we were bringing your brother or sisters home...

The nurse, Mags, then took you down for me to see you.

*

Daragh, you were beautiful. Just as beautiful as Éabha and Caomhán and Aifric were the first day I saw them. Just as wholly present, and confident in your skin as they were when they were born to life. You were not alive to the world, but you were alive to us as we admired the miracle of you.

Your head bowed, your back curved, your arms, so tiny, held into your chest; your legs, so tiny, crossed and held into your belly. Your tiny, tiny, perfect ears, your eyes closed, like your whole body was in prayer - praying as if in celebration of being part - a very whole part - of the grand descent of man. QED.

And your toes. My God they were Caomhán's toes - long like they'd play the most miniature of pianos to delight the ears of some faery world. Tiny toes with tiny toenails. And look, too: tiny fingers with tiny fingernails! My God, my God, my heart ... myself!

I stared at you for all of ... five minutes, I suppose ... and could not take my eyes off you. In those five immeasurable minutes today, minutes which, if summed, arrow to infinity, I learned, I felt, all of nature's secrets - everything was explained to me by you, Daragh - the final pieces of the mysterious puzzle of everything that is, just fell somehow into place. For this enlightenment I feel privelidged.

*

And so we left, your mother and I, with her bag and the flowers, hand in hand, back to our world. Our walk was not one filled with sadness, but rather with some kind of new relaxation, renewed strength - a strength that you have given to us by your modesty.

I said to Grace on the way to the car that it was a lovely day today too for a walk.

- Yes, she replied, but yesterday was better - that drizzle, when it came, was like snowflakes to cool your face when you'd be too hot.

And that is how it was.

The nurse in St. Monica's will take your little body now, along with the many others that have bravely and proudly represented the march of man and woman with no less passion because your weeks were confined within the womb. They will take you with armfuls of sacred compassion and prepare you for the place they call the Plot of the Angels. They will call us, your mother and father, to come and see you one last time along your way.

So we will see you on that day, Daragh. God bless you. X Dad.