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| Mendrel, (The First look after birth) |
It was the final day of the Mongar Tshechu (23/11/2024), and I was busy fulfilling my official duties. Around 1:00 PM, my phone rang, and it was my wife. Her voice trembled as she said, “I’m bleeding. I think you should come as soon as your program ends.”
Worried but trying to stay calm, I replied, “Let me know if it gets serious. I’ll be there.” Then, I hung up and continued with my work. But after a quick moment, I rushed to the Goenkhang inside the Dratshang, offered prostrations, and prayed wholeheartedly. “Please, let everything happen only after the Tshechu concludes,” I pleaded, trusting that our 'Choechongsungma' and particularly the deity of Mongar 'Dorji Gyeltshen' would watch over us.
With my mind somewhat at ease, I resumed my responsibilities, watching the mask dances, assisting my colleagues, and ensuring everything ran smoothly. Hours passed without another call from my wife, which reassured me.
By 7:30 PM, I was in the Kuenrey, attending the closing program of the Tshechu. I had to deliver a speech expressing gratitude to the participants. As I started speaking, I felt my phone vibrate twice in my 'hemchu.' Glancing down, I saw my wife’s name on the screen. I hesitated, then silenced the phone, knowing I couldn’t leave mid-ceremony. To this day, I don't reminisce what I said in that speech, as I was too distracted.
Afterward, we moved on to the 'Soelra' distribution, where I assisted Lopen Drungchen in listing the names of the mask and folk dancers, both lay and monastic. Though outwardly composed, my mind was restless. I could not hold the urge to check my phone, so I grabbed the phone from my hemchu, and just then, an incoming call from my sister flashed on the screen. I picked up.
“I think you need to come,” she said, her voice entwined with urgency.
“Okay, I’ll be there,” I replied.
The moment I hung up, my phone rang again, and this time, it was my wife. Her voice was strained. “Please come. ASAP.”
“Okay, I’m coming. Just hold on,” I assured her. I knew exactly what was happening.
The event was nearly over, with only the closing dinner and dance left. I rushed to my boss, explained the emergency, and received immediate approval to leave.
Dashing to the parking lot, I jumped into my car and sped home at 80 km/h. I had left it parked strategically for a quick leaving. As I entered the house, I found my wife in the bedroom, curled up in pain, moaning, “Alaw..........”
"We need to go to the hospital," I urged with a concerned voice. She gave me a frustrated look, still upset that I hadn't answered her calls earlier. At first, she refused, insisting that it might not be time yet. She wanted to wait, to believe that the pain would pass.
Unsure of what to do, I discreetly phoned one of my female colleagues, asking about the symptoms before delivery. Her advice was firm; she suggested that we go to the hospital without delay. With her mother’s help, we gently convinced her, reassuring her that it was better to be safe. Reluctantly, she agreed, and we hurried to get her ready. The Mongar Hospital, known as the Eastern Regional Referral Hospital, wasn’t far; it's just a few kilometers from home, making our task easier and confident.
Thankfully, we had packed all the essentials a month in advance. I grabbed the bag, loaded it into the car, and we rushed to the hospital. After reaching the hospital, the nurse checked her and informed us that we’d have to stay overnight, though she wasn’t sure if the baby would arrive that night. We took our stuff from the car and headed towards the maternity ward.
Inside the maternity chamber, another nurse examined my wife and gave her an injection. Meanwhile, I handled the admission paperwork. After the check-up, we were given a bed to rest, but my wife had labor pains that came and went unpredictably. I felt helpless, watching her endure it all. I could feel her pain, the pain that was completely different that we as husbands could barely understand, and my heart ached for her. I have no options left but to pray for a smooth delivery.
In the meantime, a close friend of mine, who worked in the same Dzongkhag, came to check on us. His presence brought me an unexpected sense of calm. He is more mature, and his wife, who is also pregnant, works in the hospital. Despite his busy schedule, he stayed with us throughout the night, an act of kindness I will never forget.
Hours later, as my wife lay in pain, she suddenly cried out, “Water is coming, Tshering; I think the baby is coming!”
With my limited knowledge of childbirth, I suspected her, which we usually call 'water break.' It was actually the rupture of the membrane, the rupture of the amniotic sac, which releases the amniotic fluid. I rushed to inform the nurses, who immediately checked her and then wheeled her into the delivery chamber. I was asked to prepare the baby’s clothes.
I stood just outside the delivery room; my heart skipped a beat as my wife’s excruciating screams echoed through the walls. Then, a nurse called me in, instructing me to hold her hand. My hands trembled as I tried to hold her hand, fear tightening my chest. It was my first time witnessing childbirth, and I felt completely helpless, unsure of what to do. I couldn’t even bring myself to meet her eyes, stunned by the intensity of the moment. Yet, I felt her pain as if it were my own. My mother’s words resurfaced in my mind: "Giving birth is like dying and coming back; there is no greater pain in this world than giving birth." If I could have taken even a fraction of her suffering, I would have, but I knew this was a battle she had to endure alone.
"Is the baby coming out?" my wife asked, her voice shivering with pain. I couldn’t answer as I couldn’t even bring myself to look. My hands trembled as I was holding her hand, and my mind felt numb. All I could do was pray. Moments like this pull us into a realm beyond words, where emotions collide with fear, awe, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. It’s a feeling so intense, so indescribable, that it changes you.
Two well-experienced nurses urged her to push. After alternating between resting and pushing through the pain, the baby finally arrived at around 12:54 midnight. The nurses cut the umbilical cord, measured the baby's weight and height, performed the necessary procedures, and gently patted the newborn. Instantly, the cry of a newborn filled the air.
My wife asked the nurses in a relieved but worrisome tone, "Is everything okay with my baby?" and one of the nurses turned to us and said, 'Everything is fine. It’s a girl.'"
"They first placed our daughter in my wife’s arms. Her tiny eyes remained closed, her delicate arms and legs curled up, but her hair was thick and black. The nurses wrapped her in the warm clothes I had given them before gently handing her to me. In that instant, all my fear, exhaustion, and anxiety vanished. Joy filled my heart. I had prayed to Goddess Tara, Jetsun Dolma, and I felt she had blessed us with this precious gift, free from any complications."
The night of November 23, 2024, was the busiest, scariest, and most beautiful night of my life. In those hours, I understood the suffering of mothers, the silent fears of fathers, and how life can change in the blink of an eye. That night, I witnessed the raw power of love, resilience, and the miracle of life itself. I firmly believe that our 'Neydag,' whom we say as the Ke-Tsen, also plays his role, blessing us.
Parenthood is not just about welcoming a child into the world; it is about embracing the unknown, overcoming fear, and discovering a love deeper than anything I had ever known. In that moment, I realized that life’s greatest blessings often come through struggle, and the cries of a newborn are not just sounds but echoes of hope, love, and new beginnings."
"May, Yum Jetsun Dolma and Tsenchen Dorji Gyeltshen always protect my liitle Daugter, Mendrel."
Note: (written for future remembrance on her 16 month old day)
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