We had the peculiar privilege of knowing when the birth would be so I thought it would be easier to plan for the moment and make sure I had a notebook to write down what was going on and what I was thinking at the time. I'll list the contents of my notebook for the day later, they're not particularly significant!
To tell the story in chronological order I need to begin the night before. We arrived at the hospital at around seven thirty to begin the process. It could be made unpleasantly clinical but the birthing suites at the hospital we'd chosen - and paid for - are set up to make it feel as much like home as is reasonably possible. The net effect is that you feel like you're in a sci-fi future hotel. The drip that normally triggers things in to action wasn't scheduled to be put in until the following morning but there were other examinations and monitoring to do. Once these were done we were left to watch TV or go to sleep. I only managed to hit the emergency button once by mistake, trying to turn the TV on. There was a sofabed for me to sleep on in addition to Em's hi-tech wonderbed and we both slept on that in the end.
Labour
Early the next morning we met with the obstetrician to get things under way. After a few false starts at 9am a drip was put in Em's arm and almost immediately things began to happen. At 9:05 the first complaints of discomfort were heard and by twenty past, they were painful. From thereon in things moved very quickly. We were told that there would be no real action until around 2pm, not so. My notebook entries look like this:
- Drip in 9am
- First feelings 9:05
- Hurting 9:20
- Lower tummy and lower back 9:33
- 10:10 "Hurts" tears
- 10:25 Hotpack applied to back
- 10:40 (entry is blank but we headed for the bathroom at this point).
The reason we went to the bathroom was that Em was feeling a little sick. A little sick turned into a lot sick and eventually to projectile, erupting epic scale sick. We retreated to the shower.
By the time Emily was in the shower I'd taken the subtle signals that thing were moving a little faster than expected. The midwife too was catching on, and the first examination at just after 11am - not due until 2pm - showed that she was almost halfway through the labour. Pain relief was offered in the form of gas and air, which seemed to help no end. Sadly, and much to my disappointment, I wasn't offered any.
I think it was at about this point that I began to feel about as useless as I ever have. Em got on the bed and pretty much stayed there apart for some wriggling to get comfortable. The pace of progress increased if anything. By the time Emily got around to asking for more pain relief we were told that by the time it took effect we would be holding our baby, which was a shame, I could have used a decent opiate at that juncture. The gas was turned up and I still didn't get any.
Pushing and paddle pops
An hour later with both the obstetrician and the midwife now in the room it was time for the last push, so to speak. Violet's actual arrival was quick, there was only about 45 minutes of proper pushing. Emily had been brought ice lollies as a distraction and to help prevent dehydration. As she was obviously unable to hold on to these herself I had become the bearer of iced treats and encouragement. The rhythm of the next three quarters of an hour or so was; ice lolly, gas, push, ice lolly, gas, push. I have never seen anyone look as distressed as Em did when she was asked to push without the gas. "But, why...?!".
Violet's final arrival was quick. Immediate checks were made and her feet tickled to get her to cry. On the birth details under resuscitation measures the words 'tickled feet' are preserved forever.
It's difficult to watch someone you love in pain and know that your total capacity to help is waving flavoured ice on a stick at them and saying 'nearly there', and that you've already reached that point. I think that's why the obstetrician tries to get the dad involved towards the end of the birth. When Violet made her way into the world I was told that I was going to help lift her up to Emily. That was a profound reality jolt. For the last 4 and three quarter hours I'd been just fetching and carrying, offering words of encouragement when needed, remaining calm and feeling feeble. Really I was still getting used to the idea of fatherhood (these things take a little time to get through to me). To be offered a seconds old crying baby covered in warm slippery gunge and told that I would have to lift her snapped me back to the moment like I'd been slapped. Emily looked flat-out astonished when given Violet, it clearly too a moment to sink in.
The obstetrician is a no nonsense old-school bow tie wearing Aussie who takes great pride in his work and is obviously still fascinated by the whole process. We knew that he would need to check the placenta and the amniotic sac, we didn't think he'd try to show us it in all it's gory detail. Still standing at the end of the bed he held it up for us to look at, muttering things like, 'very healthy' and prompting us to come and have a closer look. The whole sequence was one of comic oddity. Professional pride can be taken too far.
After a short while Violet was taken to be weighed, measured and tidied up and was brought back professionally swaddled. She was given to me to hold whilst Em was tended to. I sat for about the next half hour staring at my daughter, her wrapped, me rapt.
Violet's final arrival was quick. Immediate checks were made and her feet tickled to get her to cry. On the birth details under resuscitation measures the words 'tickled feet' are preserved forever.
It's difficult to watch someone you love in pain and know that your total capacity to help is waving flavoured ice on a stick at them and saying 'nearly there', and that you've already reached that point. I think that's why the obstetrician tries to get the dad involved towards the end of the birth. When Violet made her way into the world I was told that I was going to help lift her up to Emily. That was a profound reality jolt. For the last 4 and three quarter hours I'd been just fetching and carrying, offering words of encouragement when needed, remaining calm and feeling feeble. Really I was still getting used to the idea of fatherhood (these things take a little time to get through to me). To be offered a seconds old crying baby covered in warm slippery gunge and told that I would have to lift her snapped me back to the moment like I'd been slapped. Emily looked flat-out astonished when given Violet, it clearly too a moment to sink in.
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The obstetrician is a no nonsense old-school bow tie wearing Aussie who takes great pride in his work and is obviously still fascinated by the whole process. We knew that he would need to check the placenta and the amniotic sac, we didn't think he'd try to show us it in all it's gory detail. Still standing at the end of the bed he held it up for us to look at, muttering things like, 'very healthy' and prompting us to come and have a closer look. The whole sequence was one of comic oddity. Professional pride can be taken too far.
After a short while Violet was taken to be weighed, measured and tidied up and was brought back professionally swaddled. She was given to me to hold whilst Em was tended to. I sat for about the next half hour staring at my daughter, her wrapped, me rapt.
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