day 1

monday: a child is born, and man is she pissed

Monday morning started with my wife experiencing the same contractions as she had the day before. My wife would slap my arm which would be my signal to unlock my iPhone and hit the lap button on the stopwatch (Labor? There’s an app for that). The contractions were a little closer and after some somewhat intense discharge we called the doctor who told us not to worry. Curiously, Clara’s OBGYN did not sound as perky at 2am than he normally did at our daytime appointments.

Some time later Clara felt the baby shift and felt what she thought was her water breaking. She expressed it in a way that I can only describe as “orgasmic” and after that event we jumped into action: I showered, Clara transferred clothes from the washing machine to the dryer and we headed out to the car.

The drive was remarkably mundane. There was of course little traffic at 4 in the morning and we were in a room at the hospital in time to see the sunrise. My wife changed into her ever-so-stylish hospital gown before being violated by a nurse who announced wife’s cervix was already dilated to at least 6cm. We were well on our way.

Clara’s family (Mom, Dad, Grandmother) soon arrived and for a while there were a few too many people anxiously milling about. When Clara’s OBGYN arrived for his morning rotation he looked much more chipper than he had sounded on the phone a few hours earlier. His exam was used as the excuse to eject Dad and Grandma and so they missed hearing that she was already up to 7cm and that her water was, in fact, not broken. The doctor rectified this situation with an instrument that looked suspiciously like a crochet hook and then asked if Clara wanted an epidural.

“Yes, please," was her response.

So the IV was inserted and eventually the epidural was as well. The on-duty anesthesiologist was delayed somewhat by an emergency Cesarean birth and for a moment Clara considered the possibility of passing on the epidural. After all, it hadn’t been that painful so far and she was most of the way there. A couple of hard contractions later she was thinking clearly again and when the anesthesiologist finally arrived the procedure was rather quickly executed. Apparently Clara’s blood pressure momentarily dropped a bit along with the baby’s but the anesthesiologist and attending nurse dealt with the situation so quickly and calmly neither Clara nor I really knew what was going on until it was over.

By then it was around noon and things had gone remarkably smoothly. One of my biggest fears was seeing my wife in pain but for the most part that aspect of the equation was missing. There were no scenes of Clara doubled over in the hallway, immobilized by a contraction. I never gently patted her forehead with a damp cloth as she grimaced in pain. As near as I could tell, this whole labor thing was turning out to be a lot easier than it had looked like in the birthing classes. And with the epidural in place, there was little to do but wait for her cervix. It didn’t keep us long.

When it was decided it was time to push, the hospital bed Clara had been resting in all mornings was transformed into a birthing robot. The lower portion of the mattress was jettisoned and stirrups appeared to respectfully hold my wife’s legs high in the air. A large bucket also appeared. It was lined with a red plastic “biohazard” bag and was positioned below my wife’s out stretched legs.

“Is that bucket to catch the baby?” I asked.

“No,” The nurse answered, “It is not.”

In my innocent imagination I had always assumed I would experience the birth of my child from the perspective of my wife’s head. Perhaps I would hold her hand or stroke her forehead as the doctor held up our newborn daughter and presented her to the world, much like Simba in the Lion King. The best part of this scenario is that it kept me (and more importantly my eyes) well north of the equator. I might know conceptually what was going on down there but I wouldn’t have to see any of it.

When the nurse asked Clara’s mom and I to grab a foot and help push them towards my wife’s chin while she bared down in sync with the contractions I was on the one hand grateful to be able to take a somewhat more active role in the process. On the other hand, the mechanics of my position meant that my head was but a few feet and in a direct line of sight with ground zero. This was something I was decidedly ungrateful for.

I do not mean to suggest that by seeing what was happening to my wife it was worse than actually experiencing it. But believe me when I tell you I saw, smelled and heard unspeakable horrors that afternoon. There are reasons no man should be where I was. Years from now I’ll be cleaning out a clogged drain or hear the sound of a wet washcloth hit the floor and I’ll be transfixed by a flashback to that afternoon in November. This is the burden I now carry with me.

Adding to the surreal nature of this experience was the fact that my mother in law was located just a few feet away from me on my wife’s other leg. Although she had delivered two children of her own, she too was forever changed by the experience. Later she and I would recall that when the head appeared all squished from its tortured trip through the my wife’s birth canal we both silently worried the baby would be born a monstrously collapsed head. We simultaneously avoided eye contact with one another so as to hide our mutual but ultimately unfounded concern.

And then my daughter was born and everything was fine. Her head magically popped back into it’s correct shape, she cried, and after a few quick cleansing wipes and nasal aspirations she was given to Clara who held our daughter for the first time. It was an intense moment and even though it had been anticipated for the better part of a year, it was hard not get emotional. The moment was marred slightly by the fact my daughter relieved her bowels on her mother’s hospital gown whilst being held. Having recently seen indescribable amounts of bodily fluids being expelled from my wife I was personally not all that troubled to see some expelled on her.

Clara’s doctor (who had apparently shown up to deliver the baby) asked if I wanted to cut the cord. I did not. He insisted. I was not in the mood to argue and so I did the deed, separating the last remaining physical link between my daughter and her mother and no doubt instilling a deep separation anxiety that will require years of therapy for my daughter to correct. After that they took her over to a french-fry warmer where apparently a crack team of doctors, nurses, accountants, lawyers, and maybe even a priest or two quickly went to work doing whatever it is such a team was assembled to do. Someone in the delegation asked if I wanted to wager a guess as to the weight of my apparently very healthy child. I did not answer since as it happened I had just made a rather unfortunately timed head turn to see my wife deliver the placenta. I really didn’t need to see that. Returning to the moment, I said that the last we heard the baby was going to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 7 ponds 12 ounces, so we were thinking 8 pounds. All eyes were on the little LCD screen as first a “9” and then a “5” appeared. “Wow” the team said in unison.

The rest of that first day went by quickly. My brother and his wife drove in from north Dallas and while my time with them was limited, it was really good to see them and share the experiences to the day. When asked to describe what our new child looked like the only word that came to mind was “pissed”. She didn’t look innocent or angelic or peaceful. No, she looked angry. She kind of acted that way too. This remained the case for several days.