She’s arrived and she’s beautiful.

This is an excerpt of a 5000 word letter I wrote to our new daughter, Polly Marie-Louise Wilson, who was born on the 24th of January 2007. Much of the letter is about the miracle of life, and the love I feel for her and Tamsin. This small section is about electrodes.

Polly, all I wanted to be was the best goddamned birthing partner I could be. To stroke the cheek that was there to be stroked. To massage the aches that threatened to overwhelm. To liaise with the midwives about pain relief. To keep up the encouragement. To fill a chair. To get my freaking hands off Mum when she told me to get my freaking hands off her. I didn’t want to perform heroics. One of the first things we learnt at our ante-natal classes was that birth shouldn’t first and foremost be about men. I just had to be there.

The plan was always that Mum would get through the early hours of labour with the assistance of a TENS machine. A TENS machine comprises two electrodes, some connecting wires, and a handheld button. An electrical pulse is shot into nerves near the base of the spine to distract receptors in the brain from registering the somewhat more awful pain of labour. We’d done rehearsals, applying the practice electrodes to the lower back. We’d read the instructions, and believed TENS might reduce pain by as much as 30%. The problem was that at 4am in the labour ward, I couldn’t find the electrodes.

‘Search the bags,’ Mum shrieked as another contraction started building.

“They’re not here,’ I kept saying.

I looked and looked, but they weren’t there. By now, Mum and put a lot of stake in the TENS machine making life easier. She also had some stake in a pack of Weiss bars, and a wagon-load of essential oils. But labour had kicked in so suddenly that chamomile and lavender were not going to get the call up. I continued the desperate search. In Tam’s mind, those TENS electrodes were her only salvation.

‘They must be on the kitchen table,’ I said, trying to comfort her. ‘I’ll get your Mum to drive in and get them.’

‘No that will take an hour. I need them NOW! It has to be you.’

Suddenly, I had a mission. I farewelled the nursing staff like I was Clark Kent heading for a phone box. Seconds later I was out of the lift and in the car, accelerating to 70km/hr, visualising a job that I just had to achieve. Your Mum was doing the hard work. I had to get those electrodes.

Ten minutes later, I was at the front door and racing down the corridor. As soon as I saw the back table I knew I was in trouble. No electrodes. ‘No, no, no, shit, come on, they’ve got to be here.’ I fell to my knees and started rummaging through the newspaper basket. Maybe the electrodes had fallen down there? Then I scanned the table again. Seemingly a limitless amount of TENS related reading material BUT NO FUCKING TENS MACHINE. It’s not okay to swear by the way, except when the sky feels like it’s caving in, which at that moment, it was.

I traversed the kitchen floor on hands and knees, hoping that the electrodes might be born out of the tiles. Then I was on my feet, running from room to room, scanning surfaces with desperate uncomprehending eyes.

‘Come on, come on, please God, give me something.’

I’m not a religious man, so couldn’t expect much. Once I made it to the end of the corridor and the bedroom, I headed back to the kitchen table for another search. This time, I tried the drawer of an antique dresser that your Great Grandmother Durleen left for Mum. And suddenly, gloriously, there it was. Peeking out of the top of the drawer was a plastic bag containing two strips, instructions, and a tube. It was like I’d struck the Welcome Stranger. ‘Thank God … thank God …’

I was back in the car, texting as I went — something I hope you never do when you learn to drive. My message was simple and restrained, no need to gloat over the difficulty of the find. ‘Got them. Be there in a minute. Hang in there. Much love.’

The message back was blunt and there was pain written across every word. ‘Thank God. Hurry.’

I parked in a two hour zone straight outside the emergency arrival gate, and sprinted for the lift. Within a minute, I was back at Mum’s bedside, with my treasure in hand. She was practically in tears, begging me to assemble the machine as quickly as possible.

’How do I attach them,’ I asked desperately, as I grabbed the machine in one hand and the first silky blue-black electrode in the other.

‘Isn’t it obvious,’ she said, clearly annoyed because we had been through the process a couple of weeks before.

But it wasn’t obvious. I held up the strip of material, and there was no cord leading off it. Then I picked up the instruction sheet.

‘BICYCLE REPAIR KIT’ said the top of a folded A4 page.

 ‘It’s not possible,’ I murmured to myself feeling the full, sickening weight of the disaster unfold. It wasn’t possible.

‘Tam, I’m such a dickhead. I’m so sorry. It’s not them. I brought in a bicycle repair kit.’

‘What! WHAT! Already she was crying. ‘Why? Why is it always YOU who these things happen to! Why do these things always happen to YOU?’

Later Mum told me that she was thinking of the time in Ireland when I told her as we were returning the car at Dublin airport that the passports were still in the room safe in Galway. She has a good memory, your Mum. She didn’t say anything else. She just cried, which set me off as well. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I sobbed. Jesus, I had to hold this together. ‘I’m so sorry.’

***

The electrodes were later found on the floor of the car. Fortunately, the letter and the birth had the perfect ending. Here is Polly, in all her perfection.