Giving Birth - The Husband Experience
On July 28th, 2016, I learned two things:
- Creating a human successfully is indeed a miracle.
- My wife is stronger, braver, and more resilient than I could ever hope to be.
Beads of sweat creep down my wife's forehead as she lays in the hospital bed, shaking with pain. I hear the soft hiss of a compressed air tank between Mary's piercing cries as she desperately tries to make it through another intense three-minute long contraction. The anesthesiologists continue to fumble with the tank's hoses and valves, as they have been for the last twenty minutes. Mary's suffering reaches a new level of intensity. I didn't know people could make noises like this.
Eight hours earlier, Mary wakes me up with a gentle prodding.
"I think my water broke," she whispers.
"Oh my god. It's time!" I exhale. "But the baby isn't due until the 3rd! Doesn't she know she's a week early?" Next time we should see about getting a calendar installed in the womb.
I quickly imagine what I've seen in movies. Me running at Mach 1 to grab the "go bag," shuttling everyone to the car, driving at 120 miles per hour until I get pulled over by the police, yelling at the cops that my wife is in labor, getting an escort to the hospital, crashing through the emergency room doors...
The reality is just as intense emotionally, but the movements are in slow motion. Labor takes a while. We know we are going to be in the hospital for many hours, so there's no sense in getting there before we need to be. Instead of heading to the delivery room, we head back to bed. It's 2:30am.
At 5:15am, Mary wakes me up with a soft punch.
"We should start getting ready to head in. My contractions are getting pretty intense," she says.
"How much sleep did you get?" I ask as I look at the timer log. Mary makes a strained expression and the log tells me why. She hasn't slept at all; she's logged at least fifty contractions in the past three hours.
"What do they feel like right now?" I ask.
"One second," she says, as another contraction arrives.
"Holy crap. They are already so intense that you can't even talk?! Let's finish packing and head to the hospital."
I fix us a quick breakfast of eggs and toast and put the final touches on the "go" bag. We're ready. It's around 7am.
It turns out getting to the car is a tricky prospect. Mary stands at the top of the stairs. Contraction. We wait. Mary gets to the bottom of the stairs. Contraction. We wait. Mary gets to the door of the car. Contraction. We wait. Mary gets in the car. Contraction. Seat belt on. I throw it in drive and we head off.
We arrive. The delivery room is bigger than what I imagined. Dimly lit by natural light pouring in the window, the frigid hospital air a welcome contrast from the sweltering hundred-degree temperatures outside.
Mary's contractions are gaining in intensity, but she's still standing, walking, and under control. I think to myself, "I wonder how much longer it'll be." We're five hours in.
The midwife checks Mary to see how far along she is. "You're at five centimeters," she says. Mary and I collectively think, "Wow! Halfway already. It's going to get more intense, but the hardest part is almost over, right?" But we couldn't be more wrong.
Watching my wife descend into the ninth circle of labor is traumatizing. More than anything, I want to make her pain stop. I want her to get more than a thirty-second break. I want her to see signs of progress so she can stay encouraged. But I have no control over any of it. To feel so powerless while watching someone you love in so much pain is uniquely torturous.
Three hours later, the midwife comes back in for another update. "You're still at five centimeters..."
No way. There's no way Mary has been working her ass off for all this time and hasn't shown any progress!
The midwife continues "...but you are fully effaced, which means things are going to progress very quickly now." I guess that's good news. Still, patience is wearing thin in this low point. I can see the gears turning in Mary's head, wondering if it's time to bring in the big guns to ease the pain.
What gets us through is our amazing doula. She shows me how to use my hands like a vice on Mary's head to relieve some of the pressure. She encourages Mary to keep going, and in moments where I'm losing it, she encourages me, too.
Finally, the time comes to bring in the nitrous. It turns out the chemical does have a valid application outside of a college dorm. It's designed to take the edge off during the most painful phase of a natural childbirth, and it's what is going to get us to the finish line.
But our favorite anesthesiologist dudes apparently huffed too much of the stuff in undergrad, because they've been scratching their heads for twenty minutes (and counting) and Mary isn't any closer to relief. She's now so exhausted, she falls asleep between contractions, with communication limited to a slow nod in between. If the bros don't get their act together soon, we won't make it. It's 11 am.
Ten minutes later, a doctor comes in, wondering what's taking the bros so long. He shakes his head and says, "it activates when the patient breathes in; it's not like the hose constantly pumps nitrous into the air!"
"Oh," say the bros. Mary holds the mask to her face, takes a deep breath, and a subtle calm washes over her. She throws me a sideways glance and cracks a smile to reassure me that she's still in there somewhere.
Finally, after ten hours of agonizing labor, Mary reaches "transition." This is the part in movies where everyone yells "PUSH!"
I see the baby's head for the first time and lose it. "Oh my god. She's real!" Her head looks like a triangle, crunched like a mouse trying to fit through a door crack. And dark hair! I never would have guessed. Every ounce of Mary's strength goes into pushing as the baby inches closer to the exit. The faint beeps of the baby's oxygen and heart rate monitors reassure us that everything's fine despite the fast-paced action happening outside the safety of the womb.
One final push and our baby enters the world. She's beautiful. Her face is crinkled in a crying expression, but no sound comes out. The midwives and nurses quickly plunge the fluid out of her mouth, and after a few seconds, we hear the beautiful noises of our brand new daughter.
I was fully prepared to feel nothing. It's been said that it can take a few weeks (or months) for new dads to feel bonded to their children. In my case the instant she came out, my world changed.
Welcome to the world, Alice Ann Nahorniak. I can't wait to show you this beautiful place.
Alice Ann Nahorniak, 5 minutesold.