Having found out about my impending fatherhood, I sought emotional respite in the knowledge of people that had already trodden the path of pregnancy, and seen fit to put pen to paper. Pregnancy for both prospective mum and dad is a world full of superstition. Personally if I see a ladder in the street, I’ll walk under it, three grates in a row? No problem, I’ll skip along them, and a black cat to my left on the second Tuesday of a leap-year October, pfft bring the furry little bugger on I say. But when it comes to my unborn son, I adhered to every piece of superstitious whimsy. I didn’t tell a soul before 12 weeks, other than my parents. We didn’t buy anything until 15 weeks. The pram didn’t cross our doorstep until Jasper had graced us with his presence and I treat every mirror like it was made of crystal.
Why then do Disk Jockying morons see fit to call a hospital to blow news of our future King (or by a new equal opportunities law – our Queen) straight out of the water?
Now I do not blame these two oafs for the nurse committing suicide; I feel that is an entirely unforeseen, completely tragic situation, one which I just feel so incredibly sorry for the family involved, but can’t help but feel there must’ve been something else underlying to tip this fragile soul over the edge.
The issue I have with them isn’t the death of the nurse, it’s that at this incredibly nervous time of parents to be, the last thing you want is a couple of Aussie idiots pestering you and the professionals you entrust with your care.
As a result, this death will now hang over this baby for the rest of it’s life, and it doesn’t even have fingernails yet. What a lovely way for our Commonwealth family to welcome their new head of state…