7.1 billion

I was barely seven when my father took me to a rugby game. In my childlike innocence, I was amazed by the full stadium as I looked at all the faces surrounding me. Surely everyone on the planet was sitting there, watching this one game. I was horrified when my father, a blunt and straight to the point man, informed me of my ignorance. This stadium didn't even hold a third of New Zealand's population, let alone the total seven point one billion people in the world. I got a sinking feeling in my chest, a weight that held me down for the rest of the day. I didn't realise what this meant until I was older - old enough to realise that a country boy like me would never leave a lasting impression in this world.

Rebellious and troubled were just some of the labels I obtained in my youth. Appropriate labels for a guy who showed no respect for his surroundings. I don't deny this. I was an arrogant teenager who thought he knew how the world worked, a teen who realised how pointless life was earlier than most. Melancholy became my resting emotion. I didn't care for school or the sense of kiwi work ethic my father tried to instil on me. I was the hopeless basket case by 16 and I was fine with that, I played my role well. I had moments of self hope, usually after a positive talk with my therapist or the first time I was put on Prozac but those flashes of optimism flitted away the moment I remembered the cursed seven point one billion.

Music was an escape for a while, the soft melody the guitar made under my fingers brought me peace. My frustrations that flowed out in the form of lyrics eased my clouded mind but like with everything else, I stopped. What was the point trying when I only had a minuscule chance of succeeding at all?

By my early twenties, I had learnt to fake it. Fake a smile and being happy. My Prozac dose increased and I frequented my therapist's office more and more as my positive facade started to pull me down. Routine became my saviour in those times. Wake up, take medication, eat, go to work, go home, sleep. Day in and day out I relied on this to keep me sane. Well until I met her.

Her, the one person who could rip me out of my black and white, melancholy life. She made me feel important like I wasn't another nameless person walking through a crowd. I will never forget her smile, it forced me to see the colour in the monochrome life I had built. Our relationship was like spring, it was quick and warm. Both of us eagerly awaiting summer as we placed the gold bands on each other’s left hand.

Milestones flew past us. First house, first mortgage and first positive pregnancy test. Spring ended and summer began when she held up that little white stick. Unfortunately, summer doesn't last forever. I was numb when she was rushed to the operating room. I was empty when I saw her pale body lying still. I could feel the colour fading from my world once more. Even the red that covered the sheets and the doctor's scrubs started to fade into a meaningless black shade. I slipped back into grey unimportance, just one of the seven-point one billion. Daughter’s cries went unheard and the nurse’s monotone sympathies meant nothing. It wasn’t until I finally held our daughter that I felt the same rush of spring again.

A soft and gentle November breeze came to mind when I held Daughter. Tiny hand reaching out for me, eyes looking straight into me as if I was her world. It was like I actually mattered, and I did. I struggled at first, sometimes I looked at Daughter like it was her fault, that she was the winter that took away my much-needed summer. There were moments where I hated her, I couldn’t pick her up without feeling the cold chill of winter. If Daughter wasn’t here, I would still have colour in the world, without Daughter I would have my summer, without Daughter She would still be here to pull me out of this dark endless pit.

My therapist helped me, I owe him more than I can give. He helped me remember how important Daughter was. Daughter wasn’t a curse, she wasn’t the dark clouds that took away the warm summer sun.

Daughter was part of her

Daughter was part of me

Daughter was summer too

Daughter was a blessing

Therapy eventually led to support groups, support groups led to friends. Friends who understood the complex whirl of emotions that came with Daughter. They had also lost their original Summer but they taught me that when a summer ends, we just have to huddle together for winter and wait. Summer always comes back, we just have to wait for the sun to fight past the dark clouds and shine brightly again. 

Daughter helped me realise I am important. When she called for me I felt alive. Her little hands pulled me out of the harshest winter storms. Daughter became my world, my precious little summer. 

I'm not remarkable, I am not a man who will leave a lasting mark in history. I won't change the world but that doesn't matter. I won't be a known face within the seven-point one billion people. I will be just a face you pass in the street without giving me a second glance. That doesn't matter to me though. Daughter sees me as important, I am the strong knight who defeats the monochrome dragons that threaten her. The hero who lifts her up to reach the stars I was too scared to touch. I am not him to Daughter, I am not one of the seven-point one billion to her. I am Father, and she is Summer.