Happy Father’s Day

Happy Father’s Day

BY Patrick Gibney

The year was 2003. A beautiful, dark-haired, dark-skinned, and heavily pregnant Italian woman asked me to drive her to the hospital because her water had just broke. Her name was Wendy. I knew her as much as you can know anyone from attending our Friday gigs at the Prince Charles Hotel, downtown Fayetteville. She was from Italy, so we connected in the sense that we were both European. She was married to a dark-haired, dark-skinned Puerto Rican man who worked overseas most of the time. The marriage had broken up months previous, but she wanted to remain in America to have her son and then return to Italy. And now her baby was suddenly on the way, and she asked yours truly to help. What could I say?

She was in such discomfort, and there was such commotion at Cape Fear Valley Hospital that I found myself suddenly in the delivery room; mask and gown on, a small dish in one hand, a cup of water in the other. No one had bothered to ask me who I was, but the nurse had already referred to me several times as “dad.” I never really had an opportunity to point out that I am merely a friend tasked only with transport to and from the hospital. Wendy had never really let go of my hand from the time we arrived at the hospital, as she winced in pain and discomfort while the contractions came and went. What could I do?

And then, a little head full of jet-black hair appeared. Wendy pushed and pushed, and voila, a precious little dark-haired, dark-skinned baby boy came out of her. The doctor held the baby aloft and offered me some scissors to cut the umbilical cord. Tears streamed down my face. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life. It was overwhelming. The nurse took the baby off to the side of the room and motioned to me to follow her. As I wiped the tears from my eyes, the nurse asked me, “Is this your first child?” I said, “No. It’s not my child. I am just a family friend.” The look on her face changed. She called out to the doctor who was busy sewing Wendy back together again, “Dr. Ryan - family friend.” - gesturing towards me. As the doctor nodded her head, saying “Ahhh,” it dawned on me – these guys were thinking ‘how can a guy so white have a baby so black?’ I was glad we got that cleared up.

Today, Michael Francis (his mom gave him my middle name) is a happy and healthy 23-year-old young man. I will never forget experiencing his birth. Being a dad never crossed my mind until that day. In a way, it prepared me for becoming a dad myself. It is by far the greatest honor and the most important thing any man can ever do.

Happy Father’s Day to all the great dads out there.