So, I never did buy a farm in Africa, but I had one hell of an experience trying to see if it was even a possibility. And now, as we settled into the last couple of months of Terry’s first pregnancy, everything shifted. Our focus became creating a welcoming home for the baby who was about to arrive.
Our little house was a thatched three-bedroom place—one bedroom upstairs, two downstairs—with a big lounge, a kitchen, and a pool area that included a gazebo. Terry turned the spare bedroom into a nursery for Mikey, complete with a compactum, and we painted it together. It was one of those dreamlike times—soft-edged and full of love and anticipation.
The gynecologist we chose was Graham Naylor, a well-known name in South Africa and arguably the best Johannesburg had to offer. Interestingly, his father had actually delivered me in 1967 at the Marymount Clinic. Full circle. I even went to Lamaze classes with Terry. We also signed up for a cloth nappy service out of environmental concern—this was before the internet, mind you. The company was called Wishy-Washy and was run by a Chinese fellow with breath that could flatten wallpaper. Still, he was reliable: fresh linen nappies on Monday, pick-up of the soiled ones midweek. Efficient, if pungent.
We’d already chosen names—Michael for a boy, Paige for a girl. That is, until Malachy cracked a joke: “So what are you going to call the second one? Paige Two?” That was the end of Paige. We eventually settled on Michael or Angela, depending on the outcome. No middle names, in keeping with the family tradition on my side—neither my dad nor my siblings had them. Terry agreed. We also agreed that Michael, if it was a boy, would be circumcised—but straight after birth, not at age five like I’d had to endure.
Eventually, the due date rolled around. Graham Naylor had a reputation for his ability to nudge things along. He was famous for giving a quick exam in the morning, doing “a bit of tweaking under the hood,” and having the mother go into labour that same evening. And that’s exactly how it went for us.
We saw him that morning—he did his bit—and told us to head home and wait. That evening, right on cue, Terry went into labour.
I rushed her to the Sandton Clinic, a top private hospital in Bryanston. Dr. Naylor came to check in and confirmed we’d be going the epidural route. He was known for his skill in administering it just right—allowing the mother to feel everything except the pain. I remember the spinal tap going in, and Terry being completely numb from the waist down but fully aware. It was remarkable. Then Naylor said he was going out for dinner—he’d be at a nearby restaurant—and the nurses would monitor everything.
A fetal heart monitor was clipped on. As time passed and contractions intensified, I started to worry. This was long before you could just whip out your phone and Google symptoms. If it happened today, I’d be on ChatGPT in a heartbeat. But back then, all I had were the nurses’ expressions—and their faces started looking tense. Mikey’s heart-rate was spiking.
I told them to call Dr. Naylor. They brushed me off—“He’s having dinner.” I wasn’t having it.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t care if he’s eating foie gras and flaming bananas. Call him. Now.”
Still no movement.
So I asked, “Where is he?”
“The Coachman,” they said. I knew it well and it was literally next door to the hospital.
Out the door I went. I walked into the restaurant, spotted him mid-meal, and told him: “You need to come. Now. Please!”
To his credit he didn't argue, he apologised to his guests, got up, and followed me back. And the moment he walked in, I could see from his body language that my instincts had been right. He was concerned. Suddenly, everything kicked into gear.
Within minutes, he decided forceps were necessary. And after a few precise maneuvers—out came Mikey, screaming his arrival into the world. Our firstborn. Michael Rosenfeldt.
He was quickly cleaned and handed to Terry, who was alert and radiant, thanks to the expertly administered epidural. There was a bit of bruising from the forceps, but Naylor explained that it was the right call—far better to use forceps than leave the baby in the birth canal with reduced oxygen.
Eventually, I left the clinic and went back to Jukskei Park. Agnes, our wonderful maid, came out to meet me. I told her the news—her joy was real and immediate.
The next day, we brought Mikey home.
And that was it. Life as a twosome was over. Now, we were three.
Even telling this story now—thirty-three years later—I can still feel the magic of that moment.