On the Infinite Nature of Black Holes, Life and Death

I proposed to prove that death is an illusion perpetrated upon the living. Of course professor Strauss said it was an unacceptable topic for an astrophysics thesis. My brief discourse on the ability of small minds to forestall great scientific progress did nothing to further engender her favor. I may have seriously harmed my reputation and hampered the likelihood of my graduating in a timely manner. But where would we be today if Copernicus or Newton or Darwin or Hawking hadn't ruffled the establishment's feathers?

I suppose I should have explained the theory better, particularly on how it relates to astrophysics. The key to the theory, and life when I think of it, is the peculiar nature of black holes. More specifically, exactly what happens at the "Event Horizon." The Event Horizon is an invisible boundary around a black hole, imagine it as the surface of an invisible ball with the black hole sitting in the center of the ball. As an object approaches the black hole time becomes skewed. The closer the object gets the slower time becomes. At the exact point when time stops is when the object has intersected the Event Horizon. To the outside viewer the object appears to have ceased its descent into the depths of the black hole, but really it's just a trick of the light. The gravitation pull has become so strong at this point that the light reflected by the object is frozen in time and space.

Now for the leap. There are certain forces in the universe; some are weak and some are strong; some, like death, are irresistible. The leap, and not a far one to anyone who has lost a loved one—perhaps a leap on the scale of the Grand Canyon, but how small is that earthly scar when we're dealing with stars and galaxies—is that the power of death is at least as great as the black hole's. (I'm still looking for some one from the Math Department to help me with the calculus required to prove this, but I'm pressing forward knowing in my heart of hearts it is true.)

Now let me explain what must certainly happen as one approaches death. As life draws near that overwhelming and all encompassing point that we call death, time too must slow down. And just as time stops at some point prior to reaching the final dense void that is a black hole, time too must stop at some moment prior to death. Time expands if you will. Each microsecond becomes longer and longer until one of them is infinite, never ending. But even that final infinite microsecond is never reached because every fragment of time before it is stretched to near infinite as well. And thus the man or woman traveling in their flesh-bound vessel of life toward that dark spot in the distance never reaches it. Every half measure closer they draw to it takes longer and longer until they seem to stand still.

From the outside, from the point of view of the living, the traveler has stopped still, has died, moved on from this mortal life. The living do not know that what was a mere second for them—the span of that last heart beat—has been stretched out into the infinite for he whose life is on the greatest of all brinks. We lament the lose but fail to realize that death is just an illusion.

Although I consider this theory with just the details already given a profound leap in the understanding of man, far surpassing any singular discovery made prior, I feel a few more details are easily made plain if we ponder what it means a little further. Here's the big question that I think can be reasonably answered using the framework provided: what is experienced by the person in these eternities of solitude? To answer this question it is instructive to look back to our example of the black hole.

As an object approaches a black hole not only does time seem to stand still but the object is also stretched thin. A celestial tower approaching the Event Horizon is pulled from one end until it becomes an immeasurably long spaghetti noodle. With this in mind let us think a little upon the man who approaches death. It could be reasonably argued that a man alone is nothing more than a tower of memories. As such, it is safe to suppose that these memories will be stretched infinitely long and thin like the atoms of our imaginary space-tower. Each moment of life remembered becomes a pin-point of brilliant light composed of memory and feeling. Imagine your favorite memory, boil it down to its most raw emotion, multiply that by infinity and you'll start to comprehend what is possible in the slow drifting state toward our ultimate unreachable end. Of course the corollary is true too, pain and sadness are magnified forever as well. We have infinite experiences piled on top of each other. I believe we can organize these memories as we see fit. Think of them as pages in a book; you can dwell on a single page but that doesn't mean the other pages aren't there, real, solid and waiting for you to visit them. Here we create a book more holy and profound than even the Bible.

Two things should be learned from this. One: fill your life with good memories as they shall be your constant companions when all else has abandoned you, likewise, be good to those around you so that they too are blessed by their own happiness. Two: if you've lived a full life, fear not that dark stalker in the night, the hooded life stealer, life's infinite divide, for the scythe of fate will always drop but it will take a million lifetimes to travel that final millimeter between your neck and the ever expanding universe around you.

An Uncommon Car

Owning a sports car has pretty much always been a dream of mine. Of course I don't recall the exact moment my dad's (now my brother's) '67 Camaro morphed from the red hunk of steel that sat on four wheels and rarely left the drive-way to an object of desire, worship and prideful fascination. But at some point I realized we didn't drive it all the time because it was special and because it was special it was important. The car is now like a legendary artifact, a literal Holy Grail in my life. Seeing it and being in it, not only invoke the usual joys of a nice sports car, but it also has the mystical powers of nostalgia and it has taken on colossal size and meaning in ways that only childhood memories can properly distort. Stepping into that car is like stepping into a dream, a reversal of time, it's like bathing in the fountain of youth.

So while one might argue that my adventure yesterday had nothing to do with my dad's old Camaro, I'd say it has everything to do with it.


Hello there!

Last year I became a father. For my first Father's Day my wonderful wife and dear daughter rented me a Tesla. This is no small thing. If you compound my love for cars with the fact that the nicest car I've driven in the last nine years is a used WRX wagon (unless you count the numerous times I've driven my old M3 in my dreams) plus Robyn's ambivalence toward cars--at best we can call it ambivalence, but depending on the car it veers sharply toward despise or repugnance--then you can see why this was a pretty dang special gift.

How did it drive you wonder? I'll get to that. You're probably also wondering if there were any limitation on the car since it was rented. The good news is that there were not. It was a stock 2010 Tesla. My preferred driving scenario involves lots of fun turns in the 35-50mph type roads. I did drive the car along 280 from San Francisco to Palo Alto and back but I released most of my 80+mph speeding demons from my system back when I had my M3, so I didn't try topping the car out on the freeway or anything. I didn't exactly go the speed limit but accelerating from 65 to 80 in a blink of an eye is only about 100000 times more enjoyable than cruising at 90+ mph, in this man's opinion.

For comparison I've driven or been in the following cars while they were driven very quickly: a '96 911, a '94 RX-7 Turbo (I never drove this one but had a good time as a passenger) and my '96 Supercharged M3.

The first thing I noticed about the Tesla was its distance to the ground. The car practically sits on the pavement, I'm not sure how anyone over the age of fifty gets in or out of one--I got a cramp in my upper thigh trying to swing my legs in it the first time around (apparently the previous driver had been a shorter person which made my entry all that more difficult). Next time (please let there be a next time) I might implement a stretching routine prior to driving. Related to this is the size of the cockpit. It's tiny. I've been in small cars before, even my old Miata felt like a Lincoln Town Car compared to the leg room you get in a Tesla. But that wasn't a real problem, if I was looking for room to relax I'd have gone on a cruise.

I took a quick trip around the block with the owner in the car mostly because she said it was important to understand the regenerative braking. Anytime you let off the accelerator (I'm not going to call it the gas pedal) the car feels like you've down-shifted and it aggressively loses speed. This was fun, one of my favorite things to do in my M3 was to drop a gear or two when stopping to feel that pull. So even though the Tesla is an automatic you still get that nice down-shifting feel. The second thing that took some getting use to was that the gears are all buttons in the middle console, there is no stick of any type. You press a button for Park, you press a different button for Reverse and a different one for Drive. This took some getting use to and I grabbed Jason's leg multiple times because I was reflexively reaching for the stick I felt should have been there. Jason pointed out after the second time that if I had rented the car trying to trick my passenger into believing it was mine I would have just blown my cover. The regenerative braking also had me reflexively searching for the clutch a few times as well, my mind kept telling me I had to press it before the car died as I pulled up to a stop (which would have been embarrassing).

During that short trip around the block she had me get on the accelerator. Being downtown San Francisco I only felt comfortable going so fast but all I remember from the short three seconds when I hammered it was thinking "oh shit oh shit oh shit." The thing takes off like a rocket, with zero hesitation, and since it's an automatic you get to just mash on the accelerator without a lot of finesse or skill required to feel like your driving the fastest thing ever to roam the streets. The acceleration is crisp and so incredibly smooth. And although I'm sure it's faster than anything I've driven in the past, the smoothness and the lack of the usual sounds I've come to associate with a sports car (and perhaps due to the less-than-accurate memories of being twenty and riding in my first modern sports car) the Rx7 felt faster. I recall moments in the Rx-7 when its turbo would kick in (after you were already accelerating faster than you once imagined possible) and you'd get thrown back into your seat and it would sound like you were sitting on the wing of a jet. That distant experience, in ways that can't be substantiated, still feels faster to me though I'm certain the car wasn't doing 0-60 in under four seconds.

On the drive down to Palo Alto I was amazed by how fast it could go from 60-80. It felt like it had the same power at those speeds as it did starting from a dead stop. I'm so use to driving my Civic now which you have to make decisions about changing lanes years in advance that this felt like a dream where when I wanted something all I had to do was ask for it and it was mine, and sometimes it seemed like the wish was granted before I even finished asking for it. So after one trip around the block and two miles on the freeway I was in love. I even forgave the car its awful red color (call me strange but there is only one car that can pull off red and it's made in Italy and has a horse on it).

It's a strange feeling driving someone else's very nice (understatement alert) car. When I drove my M3 around, even though it doesn't compare to the Tesla in so many ways, I felt a certain sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. I often drove it around just to be seen in it (don't I sound like an awesome dude?). Don't get me wrong there were moments of pure bliss brought about by just driving the Tesla at reasonable speeds (I think I had a least three religious experiences by the time I arrived in Palo Alto), but--and this is where I realize, I know, but it doesn't matter, that I put too much importance in cars--it felt like I was borrowing someone else's life. So while I did miss out on some of that sense of accomplishment that the M3 imparted to me, the detachment, or the awareness of being borrowed, really let me enjoy the car for the sake of the car.

Dang, I didn't realize I had so much to say about this. I had like four or five things I wanted to say and I've only said one of them. This might have to be a double installment.

I speak as though you can hear me

This is something I wrote while Robyn was pregnant, but never posted here.

I speak as though you can hear me
I speak upon the rolling hills
Among blades of grass
Seed upon seed
Soft as a whisper

I speak deep in the green forests
Over maddening monkeys
And ceaseless insects
Wet as rain

I speak under the endless seas
Drowned beneath turbulent waves
Source of life
Songs of whales

I speak of love
I speak of books
I speak of happiness
I speak of sorrow
And Maybe
I speak of God
Yet somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow
(thirty-two because nothing has ever changed
Then doubled
Because I'm certain of certain things)

Yet somehow
I've said nothing

So I rest my head
Upon your mother's swelling breasts
And pray
One day
I'll speak
And one day
You'll hear me

Filling Empty Spaces

Over the last two weeks Berkeley has had a toy fish bowl that she's greatly enjoyed putting things into and then taking those same things out of. She's had big developmental moments before: eating, sitting up, picking items up, and making noises to name a few, but this one has particularly struck me. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I was never one of those people who was excited about watching the different stages of child development and so I let the obvious stages pass by with less amazement than they are really due. The other factor, I think, is that many of the prior major development steps are not only big and obvious to even those who haven't watched closely the daily development of a child but they are also largely shared across the animal kingdom. Every animal in the world knows how to eat, most animals either know upon exiting the womb or egg, or shortly their afterward, how to manage their main mode of locomotion, and often the first thing done once an animal can breathe in air is to exhale it with some primal noise. Even the picking up of objects seems far from unique, my dogs move stuff all around the house, either by picking it up in their mouths or moving them with their paws. They can even understand different types of things: things dogs do not touch and things dogs are allowed to touch.

But yesterday Berkeley noticed a drawer on the coffee table, at the perfect height for her to pull it out and push it in. She grabbed the handle, opened it, recognized the empty space within, searched around for something on the floor within grabbing distance, picked up a Hot Wheel, and unceremoniously dropped it in the drawer. This pleased her enough that she then put a ball and two more Hot Wheels in the drawer. The next ten minutes consisted of me watching her take the ball out and then put it back in numerous times. In a sense she has discovered a tool. I didn't force it on her, like the spoon she eats with, instead it's her own little discovery, made possible by hundreds of thousands of years of ancestors developing brains that find the use of empty spaces obvious. The Universe has been split in two for her. It now consists of things that possess empty spaces and things that go into empty spaces.

She is now, and has been for 18 months, marching down the path that is humanity's destiny. And I now look forward to more moments like this one, when she looks at an empty box and not only thinks about what can go in it but how it relates to the pains she feels in her heart after losing her first boyfriend (I had no intention of crying while writing this but no one is ever prepared for the Spanish Inquisition). How filling is related to feeling. How people can be sad and lonely, broken and empty, and how she can fill them with joy and how she can be filled by the joy and love of others. And how someone, even a child, can make you realize you had more space available than you ever imagined.

the beauty of life's invisible derivative

She sits on the living room floor wrapped in the safety of a blue half circle pillow. I lay my head on that pillow, her body between me and the rest of the world.

It's hard to say how much she appreciates the closeness. Her hands and eyes wander amongst her toys, sometimes they cross my face and hair before going back to the stuffed spider or red and white maraca she loves to shake. She steals my glasses, fills my vision with her profile, her guileless eyes, her ears collecting light, her small nose, her divine cheeks. Behind her the window is blurry, beyond the window is an infinite gray that I know is rain, clouds and fogs, but feels like much more. This closeness to her, in the dying light of a rainy day isn't a thing I expected, it wasn't bargained for. Its like going into a used clothing store and stumbling upon a pair of slippers once worn by some mighty queen. It's a thing so great that even though it has just made its appearance on the distant horizon you can already feel its absents growing close. Some day she'll have boundaries, need space, have friends to impress, a life all her own, you can sense all this in that endless gray on the other side of the window, beyond her innocent face. The great arc of her love is steadily climbing, and although that most sacred parabola has many years before its slope hits zero--when the life of a child and her parents' go their separate ways--my mind already looks fondly but sadly upon a moment merely a few minutes old like a lost treasure buried beneath the endless blue seas.

Pleasanton

Pleasanton: a suburb envied by other suburbs.

I had the pleasure this weekend of getting reacquainted with Pleasanton; two friends held a wedding celebration there and I arrived about half an hour early so I decided to walk around a bit instead of crashing the party early with my baby and stroller. I'm no stranger to Pleasanton since my first two years of college were spent living in Pleasanton, although I probably spent more waking hours at school and commuting the forty-five minutes back and forth to get to school. Let's see, if we do the math, that's ugh, twelve to fourteen years ago? OK, my age isn't really the point here. What is the point? I wasn't unfamiliar with the area so walking around the block felt natural.

In that block the city brought out its best sunset lighting; its perfect mild evening weather and all the lawns were immaculately manicured, as if each day everyone in the city brings out their brand new lawnmowers to mow their yards, yards without a single spot of drying yellow or brown in them. The streets were clean, every house had a family car parked out front, and if the garage were open you could spot the BMW or Porsche--kept in pristine condition--and the mountain bike--with front tire off to let the neighbors know that they are serious about the maintenance and perfection of even their toys. If curtains are pulled aside you see houses full of Pottery Barn furniture and a mysterious lack of clutter that normally invades most lesser being's lives and living spaces.

The park is green, you can run bare foot without fear of stepping in dog feces, or human feces for that matter, and, of course, a man and his two strapping blond boys play catch in the field, the older boy taller than his father but still aims to please him. The younger boy goofy, doing cartwheels and hoping his older family members will remember to throw the ball to him even though he doesn't catch or throw well himself, and in Pleasanton they always remember to make that extra pass and chase down his arrant throws without a word of protest, they even marvel at how far over their own heads the young boy can throw the ball.

Sure there are apartment buildings in Pleasanton, but even they have an air of nobility about them. They have the same perfect common yards--green, shiny and resplendent from the dew left behind by the sprinkler system that always seems to work and always turns off just before you arrive so that you can marvel at the perfect yard without the worry of getting wet yourself. And while there are no garages for the cars, those same BMWs and Porsches live happily under carports and the mountain bikes line the decks and patios like honor badges, lest the neighbors forget... These are apartment complexes that the upper echelon of lesser cities would live in.

And sure every now and then you see an old car parked on the side of the road but they are more likely to draw the interest of collectors than the ire of police.

It all feels so planned. I mean they named the city Pleasanton. They put the trees in place, they paved the roads, and then they sat back and hoped that just the right type of people would arrive. And they did. They mastered that which they sought to master. And as much as the thought of suburban living doesn't excite me at this point in my life, I did feel safe, secure, and comfortable on those streets, looking at those houses--hypnotized by the absurd perfection.

Enlarged by One

First, I'll admit it. I was not super excited about a baby in the house. And no way was I instantly falling in love with a crying (even if it were smiling) baby. But it happened. Like bam. Instant. World changing. Lightening striking. Ground shaking. Heart breaking. She is mine, and I am hers, and there's something perfect and natural, yet not exactly as planned and completely magical about the moment it happened.

But before she ever met me she had to make her way out of her mother's womb. That journey started in earnest around Sunday night (Sunday the 8th of August) when Robyn began having contractions. They were relatively mild and inconsistent so we weren't freaking out yet but we knew the time was drawing near when we'd be heading to the hospital. They would especially fall off during the day but come on strong in the night so that Robyn slept little Monday night and almost none at all Tuesday night. Luckily she fit a nap in Tuesday afternoon to prepare her for the hard work that lay ahead. There were plans to induce on Friday if the baby was still cooking but Robyn really really really wanted a natural child birth void of pain killing drugs and knew that it was much harder to achieve this goal if pitocin was used to increase the strength of contractions so she decided to be proactive. She tried some acupuncture, we went on some long walks and finally on Wednesday morning we went to the doctor and had her "membranes swept" which like many of the other things we had tried didn't guarantee anything but sounded better than what pitocin offered come Friday. But the contractions almost instantly got stronger. We went home, stopping for lunch on the way (which we ended early because Robyn was having some good healthy contractions that I think were freaking out some of the other customers). At home we put our hospital preparation plan in motion. Putting last minute items into the over night bag, making sure everything on the checklist was packed, and then waited for the contractions to get even stronger.

Robyn labored at home for six hours. We tried various relaxing techniques: calm music, hot bath, some guided breathing. Robyn had been told earlier at the doctors that she was a little dehydrated so I was being a slave driver and making her drink lots of water. She hates drinking water and told me she was going to throw up, but I didn't believe her, I thought she was just being a bad patient. But alas, she threw up, and then I felt bad, and did a better job of following her lead the rest of the way. After a while we invited our friend Liesel (an angel and a saint in so many ways) over to be support through the rest of the process. I instantly felt more at ease with the third person there, someone who has successfully delivered two children of her own no less, so she wasn't going into this thing completely blind. Like I said there was about 6 hours of labor at home, the second half of which Liesel was there for. Robyn was very concerned about going to the hospital too early and the thought of driving there early and getting declined admittance allowed her to have the strength to labor pretty long and hard at home. Liesel and I finally talked her into going to the hospital, so I called to make sure they were expecting us and we headed over.

I'm sure the car ride over seemed twice as long to me as it really was and probably twice as long to Robyn as it did to me. Almost every corner had another car that needed the right away or a pedestrian strolling at leisurely speeds and more bumps than we'd ever been aware of before. I talked the whole way there, just describing to Robyn what I was seeing and how the obstacles were slowly being conquered. Liesel followed along behind us.

We arrived at the hospital. Robyn was examined and determined to be at 4 centimeters. They admitted her and gave us a spectacular room with two walls completely made of glass overlooking downtown and part of a foggy forest. We didn't realize how nice the view was right away though as it was now 7pm and fairly dark and foggy. Robyn was given a little IV jack and then the nurses and doctors mostly left us alone to labor however we saw fit. For three hours she laid in bed, took another hot bath, walked the halls of the hospital while Liesel, Robyn's mom Lynn (who arrived shortly after we got to the hospital) and I gave her gentle but firm support, reminding her to breath, and that the pain, while unpleasant, was a necessary, natural and useful part of the labor and birth process. Unfortunately for Robyn she was throwing up everything she tried to drink so she remained dehydrated through most of the early labor in the hospital. After three or four hours Dr. Jones (yes that's really his name, and yes we loved having him at the birth, along with pretty much every other doctor and nurse we interacted with at UCSF) came around and examined Robyn again. She was at 5 centimeters and 90% effaced. Robyn was pretty disappointed with this information, and almost cried, she had that defeated look, I could see it coming, but she pulled herself back together, relaxed and the doctor explained that often times the first 5 is the longest and the next 5 can go by really fast (relatively).

Robyn redoubled her efforts and she labored on for three more hours. The contractions were coming stronger, we were all tired but felt like we were again making good progress. Liesel, in her wisdom, also recognized Robyn's disappointment with only reaching 5 centimeters and suggested to me, out of Robyn's hearing, that we tell the doctor not to tell Robyn how far along she was next time, instead he could tell me and I would decide if it was news that would help or hinder her. So I talked to him before he came to do the exam and he agreed not to say how far along she was unless she had made significant progress. He did the exam and then sort of sat silently (everyone in the room, even Robyn somehow) knowing what it meant. He called me outside and let me know that she was only at 5.5 and gone back to 70% effaced. I knew this information was going to break Robyn's heart and determination. On top of this bad news, the doctor thought that at this point it would be a really good idea to try some pitocin as Robyn's current contractions weren't pushing things along at all. She was already exhausted, she couldn't go on like this for another 10 hours, and possibly have very little progress, and then be expected to push out the baby.

So back into the room I went and told Robyn, it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to say to her, but there was no way around it. So I told her what the doctor said and she was indeed disappointed. She really didn't want to augment the contractions but she also knew she couldn't keep going as she had been. So she consented to pitocin, which she knew also meant consenting to pain killers. The doctor came in and explained that even with pitocin it would probably still be another five hours before she reached a full ten centimeters. She said, "I can't do it Shawn, I can't go that long." I convinced her to try a couple of the more powerful contractions to see if she could handle it and she did try, but it was too much at this point, she was too tired and the labor had already gone on longer than I think we had all envisioned. She convinced me she wanted some drugs, so we started with Fentanyl (a narcotic) to battle the pain and an IV to fight the dehydration. The pain was lessened for about two minutes but as the pitocin kept coming on the contractions became stronger and stronger. The Fentanyl was mostly useless. Her water broke with these new stronger contractions and meconium was found in it so we were told the pediatricians would be on hand when the baby was born to make sure her lungs were cleared. This meant that the baby would not be put directly on Robyn after the birth. This was another blow to the birth we had envisioned and it weighed heavily on our hearts. After about an hour of these new more intense pains Robyn said she needed an epidural. I knew this was the thing she wanted least of all from the on set so I made her tell me twice, which she did without hesitation and so I told the nurse about her request and the process began. Unfortunately the process was not fast, and on top of that the baby was showing some signs of distress due to Robyn not getting enough oxygen. The head doctor came in and put her on oxygen and said the baby's heartbeat needed to be more regular before Robyn could get the epidural. They suspected the oxygen would fix that and it did fairly quickly, but at the same time the doctor who would be administering the epidural had to go over all the benefits and side effects of it before having Robyn sign off on it. It was sort of ridiculous in the moment as Robyn was in unbearable pain, laying on her side, nearly fetal, with an oxygen mask on her face. The doctor would list a side effect then have to pause as Robyn went into a contraction. But finally it was finished, the tools were brought in, and the procedure began. For an epidural they basically put a needle in your spine and drip some fluids into your spinal cord to deaden your nerves from your uterus down. And with such a delicate operation you are of course suppose to sit very very still, which is a thing that is not easy to do when you're going through the final powerful drug induced contractions. They had Robyn sit on the edge of the bed and lean over a table. I grabbed her hands and tried to talk her through it. As a contraction came on she tried to bite my finger. I had to pull away quick or I'm sure there would have been some stitches involved. It took about two contractions for the procedure to be finished then another few for it to actually take affect. And then, like magic, the pain was gone.

The doctor checked her cervix again and she was at 9.5 centimeters and 100% effaced. She had for the most part gone from 0-9.5 centimeters drug free and with some very powerful pitocin induced contractions. We were all so very proud of her and how long she fought the good fight. I knew she was probably disappointed that the labor didn't go as planned but at that moment the lack of pain I think made up for that disappointment. It was now 7am August the 12th. The doctors thought Robyn should rest before starting the final push, and she still had .5 centimeters to go so they told her to sleep for three hours and they would be back to start the final step.

At this point the whole mood of the delivery changed. What was in the beginning a very tense, stressful, painful process, one in which I had a very specific planned out role of supporter and comforter, became much more calm and pain free. Robyn smiled, even laughed, and I felt a little lost in what my new role in the process would be. I even had time to go move the car before our meter started running at 9am. When I got back I went to sleep for two hours as did Robyn. I think Liesel and Lynn both stayed awake; one could't have asked for better angels and guardians.

I awoke to the sound of doctors talking. It was about 10 am. They wanted to check her again soon. I called Jason, and asked him to come up as I wanted him around. They checked Robyn a few minutes later and she was ready, 100% effaced and 10 centimeters.

We were privileged to deliver our baby on a weekday afternoon when UCSF has midwives at the delivers. Our delivery was overseen by Midwife Judith Bishop and first year resident Doctor Long assisted her. I think Judith was perfect for Robyn and her desires and made the process, that hadn't gone as planned so far, feel a bit more natural and intimate than one might expect from an M.D. directed procedure.

The midwife helped Robyn through three hours of directed pushing. She tried a few different positions and finally settled in on a "birthing stool", which Robyn really loved. At the end of those three hours, Judith directed Robyn to stop pushing and the readjusted her so that she was sitting on the bed, we could see our baby's little head crowning. The doctors turned around to prepare for delivery, putting on new gloves, getting the required tools in place, when Robyn said, "uhh I think she's coming out." And she did, quick as lighting and everyone in the room jumped for the baby and Judith caught her just as her head popped out and quickly twisted her shoulders in place and pulled her out. It was amazingly fast and probably left everyone in the room's heart racing. I cried, Robyn cried, I laughed, Robyn laughed, we cried, we laughed. I cut the cord, the pediatricians checked her out (under my watchful eye), wiped her off and let me carry her over to Robyn's waiting arms. I wish I had a picture of that look on her face at that moment. When my memories fade as I get older it's going to be one of the memories I try to hold onto the hardest and I will be saddest about when that clear, brilliant picture of love and joy slips from my mind. Robyn's uterus was bleeding a little more than the doctors wanted so there was some "minor" work that still needed to be done that unfortunately caused Robyn some pain during the first few minutes we got to spend together with our baby but won't matter in the long run. There she was our baby, later to be named Berkeley Lynn Kessler, alive and born at 1:21pm August 12th, 2010, weighing in at 6lbs 3oz and 20 inches long. Our family, enlarged by one, but infinitely bigger.

In the end Robyn was pleased with the whole experience. She loved the support and comfort she received during the first painful phase and also loved being able to be completely present for the second phase thanks to the epidural.

That night in the recovery room, I closed my eyes and all I could hear was the baby's heart monitor that was hooked up during delivery. At other times I'd hear little noises that reminded me of the sounds Robyn made while in deep labor pains. I realized that she'd probably make the same noises if she were seriously hurt or tortured, that in some ways I never wanted to hear that sound again. And somehow the baby's heart monitor was linked to it. I worried I'd live the rest of my life with those two sounds floating in the recesses of my brain. I closed my eyes to sleep and instead I cried. I cried a husband and a father's cry: full of love, full of fear, full of worry, full of pride and back again to full of love. I eventually succumbed to exhaustion and in the morning whatever powers are out there in the universe did me a favor and swept those sounds from my mind, so much so that even now when I try to imagine them I can't conjure a clear memory of them in my ear.

Thank you to everyone who helped us through this and everyone who has been so excited for us. Especially thank you to Liesel and Lynn for all their support, no way we could have made it through without you two. And thank you to Jason, who probably doesn't feel like he did much, but just knowing his strong arms were nearby meant the world to me. And thank you to Robyn, for creating the most wonderful little life I've ever seen and for loving me.