My wife is in the 41st week of her pregnancy. We've tried everything to bring labour on: acupuncture, raspberry leaf tea, sex, a ridiculously hot vindaloo. Nothing yet.

The phone wakes us at 3.30am. I bolt down the corridor. Something is wrong. I've had 90 minutes' sleep.

It's Mum. Dad is having chest pains, difficulty breathing. They've called the ambulance.

I drive, and find the paramedics with Dad in the living room. He's sitting in a chair saying there's a heavy weight on his chest. Despite his ailments, Dad continues to order Mum around. He tells her to bring him things, to take things away, and to shut up whenever he disagrees with what she's said. He's bitter and distrustful of the medical profession and yet has somehow made it to 85. He's recently lost a lot of weight.

The decision is made – hospital. I follow in the car with Mum, who is 84. We settle in beside Dad's bed, listening to him complain about both immediate and past hardships. I try to turn his mind to more positive thoughts like the impending birth of his grandchild.

I drive home. My wife is smiling gently and informs me I'd better get to bed. She's feeling contractions.

I somehow sleep. Three hours later, my wife's still in the living room. There's chairs everywhere, buckets, towels. She's showered twice and vomited three times. She can't hold out any longer – time to call the midwife. We grab our hospital bags.

The midwife meets us at the birth centre. The pain has escalated. My wife requests a cylinder of nitrous oxide. She huffs through each contraction as the gas takes away the height of the pain. I check on Dad in the cardiac care unit who is now with the two future grandmothers. I want my news to bring some joy but he remains focused on his own plight.

The pain is now too great. My wife requests morphine but is told her only option is an epidural, which could delay the birth several hours. She reluctantly agrees.

Soon the big push is under way. There's sighting of a head. The midwives cheer on every push. I chime in but without the same enthusiasm. My wife has done well to not insult me this whole time.

Eventually, the head crowns and I see slicked-back hair, two ears, two tightly-closed eyes, a nose, and a squashed-in face covered in shiny goo. From there, it's only two more pushes before a slippery, eel-like body emerges. My wife looks at the squealing miracle on her bare chest. It's a boy. I kiss her forehead on a job supremely done.

We all take a breath. The midwives are overjoyed, I'm thankful, and my wife is exhausted. I snap photos. Everything appears normal. He is weighed: four kilos, a big lad. He screams on the scale. Being cold and naked is not appreciated.

I excuse myself to deliver the news. This is perhaps the sweetest walk I've ever made. My feet skip across the parquetry floor, an enormous weight lifted from my shoulders, something I'd carried for years. It stemmed from the fear of my parents dying without seeing grandchildren. Finally, they have a grandson. Whatever extra time they get with them – a day, a month, a year, 10 years – is a bonus.

My parents and mother-in-law look tired. It's been a long day for them too. All three faces are expectant. "What is it, Panagiotis?" my mum calls me by my Greek name, "have we got a baby?"

Jubilation. Dad's first smile in eons. Mum's eyes fill with tears. My mother-in-law punches the air and starts working her phone. We cause heads to turn in the otherwise calm cardiac unit. I show the baby's first photos on the camera. Mum can't stop kissing the digital screen.

I return to the birth centre until my son is ready for introductions. I carry him back in my arms. Dad is unsure what's going on. But his confusion is only brief before he sees the bundle I'm holding. His gummy face smiles. I lean in to give him a closer look. Mum asks what he thinks. His thin eyes are trying to focus on the new life hovering before them. "Oooh," Dad says, "you done good."

Over the next week, I run a double marathon, caring for the young and the old. Each has a head disproportionately large for their body. Each has unique needs but both are equally helpless. Dad needs a dietary supplement; the baby needs formula milk.

Dad is eventually released from hospital. He wants to steal a walking frame but they're onto him.

I push Dad to the car in a wheelchair. I had carried my newborn son out into the world through the same automatic doors.

Peter Papathanasiou is a Canberra-based writer. He tweets @peteplastic and blogs: fromtheplasticpen.wordpress.com/