Labour (Part 1)

Mother was hopeful while setting the Christmas table...

Here is the tale of our Christmas Day...

On the 24th of December I was jesting at the possibility of our own little Christmas miracle.  I even put my prediction in verse.  Well, Christmas lunch wasn't quite interrupted by a gush of water, but... Why don't I just start at the beginning...

Christmas morning was restless: Wifey was up and down and all around.  When dawn broke a claim was made of "gastric pains", coming and going every half hour or so, starting at a little after 0100hrs.  I was sent to the nearest service station for Quick-Eze and milk (since I was making the trip).

A little later on, Mother-In-Law dropped by.  When conversation broke for Wifey to breath deep and clutch her stomach, an enquiry was made and an eyebrow raised at the response.

"They sound like contractions to me."

"No," Wifey's stubborn reply, "I'd know if they were."

"Riiight..." [To me] "You'd best keep an eye on that."

When Mother-In-Law had made her leave a decision had to be made about Christmas lunch: stay home (safe distance to hospital) for lonely leftovers, or drive an hour through soggy weather, holiday traffic and double demerits to full Christmas feast with family.  Since Wifey was in denial about the waves of pain running through her body and I was keen to partake in the seasonal celebrations, I pushed for the latter.  Hence we joined the host of holiday revellers clogging Sydney roads.

A call was put forth to the 'rentals to inform them of our progress.  I also made mention of Wifey's mysterious "waves of gastro", which was met by another, "Riiight..." followed by a, "We'll make sure lunch is ready to go, in case you need to... duck off."

We arrived to a warm reception - the family had not expected to be graced with our presence at all leading up to Christmas Day, so our being there was excitement enough, without the added thrill of Wifey's 'unsettled' stomach.  Brother was quick to point out that presents were sitting unopened on the floor, a situation that he felt should be dealt with immediately.  Part way into the process Wifey leant in my direction and quietly asked if my phone was near by and if I could please start a timer - her attempt at subtlety futile in a room where all eyes were upon her.

"So we've decided these are contractions, have we?"

"Yes."

(Mother:) "We'd better eat."

Contractions were 18 minutes apart at this stage.  An earlier call to the hospital (at my insistence: "Just in case the 'gastro' is something to worry about") had informed us that it was time to call in again when they were 5 minutes apart.  Not knowing how quickly they would come on and wary of a long, wet, traffic-heavy, double-demerit-burdened trip home, we were inclined to agree with Mother.

We sat down to lunch, wondering if the extra place setting that Mother had (jokingly) set was soon to be filled.  Every now and again, Wifey would squeeze my hand, indicating it was time to restart the timer... 14 minutes... 10 minutes... 7 minutes...

"That was delicious!  We might head off..."

"You won't stay for pudding?"

*squeeze*

"We're at 5 minutes."

"I'll pack you some to go."

Thus far my prophecy was coming to fruition, so naturally I was concerned for the carpets in our new family wagon.  Though I threatened to make Wifey sit on a tarpaulin, I conceded that her concerns of a slip-and-slide were not unfounded, so compromised with a pile of dog towels.  We made our leave, with starry eyed parents waving us off, Brother dancing around excitedly - giddy at realisation that his time to be 'the coolest uncle ever' was close at hand - and Nana tearing up in a whirlwind of emotion.  The remaining relatives and animals held a tighter rein of their emotion, though I'm told all other topics were lost to conversation for the remainder of the night.

The trip home was smooth enough and Wifey even managed to not burst her waters en route.  So we settled ourselves down on the couch and took to timing the contractions.  I was pretty pleased with myself, it has to be said: not only had we snuck a Christmas lunch in and got away with it, but we'd filled a few hours of what I was told would be a long process; and a distraction is generally a good thing if I am required to wait, for patience is not a virtue I possess.

Now here's the thing about contractions (I've discovered): there is no linear pattern to their reduction in interval.  We had had contractions at all intervals and of all durations; a 12 minute interval might be followed by a 6 minute interval, then suddenly a 2 minute interval(!).  Eventually we saw fit to call the hospital and declare that our contractions were coming [kind of] consistently at 5 minute intervals, my stomach a flutter at the thought that this was about to be it, we would have a Christmas Day baby.  This was at 1800hrs.

"Right," the reply, "We usually say to come in when you're contractions have been 3 minutes apart, of at least 60 seconds for a full hour.  Call us back then."

Back to the couch, deflated, stop watch nearby, pen and paper in hand.

Again, there was no consistency to the way the contractions came: intervals varying from 1 minute 50 seconds to 9 minutes 40 seconds; durations from 45 seconds to an agonising 7 minutes 20 seconds.  Finally we saw fit to call again and were given the word to come on in for assessment, with no promise of staying yet.

When we'd made our way to the hospital for our weekly checkups, I'd oft imagined what the actual trip would be like: how I'd be feeling, my reaction to traffic.  Yet, as we cruised in on eerily-calm late-Christmas  Day streets, I was surprisingly calm and borderline numb.  I dropped Wifey at the entry and went to the car park, pleasantly surprised to find that someone with sufficient authority and fair Christmas Spirit had deemed that if people must use the car park on such a day, they should at least do so for free.

The walk to the birth unit was agonisingly long; Wifey cursing whatever man had designed the hospital such.  Where earlier in the day her contractions had caused her to catch her breath and hold conversation, the most recent were making a far-greater impact.  It was a slow shuffle, punctuated by the occasional mark time, in which walls, rails and me alike.  We finally made our entrance at 2000hrs.

Once checked in, Wifey was hooked up to machine to track Baby's heartbeat and Wifey's contractions. This was not an unfamiliar process to us, as we had experienced it just the day before as part of our checkup.  We also had the unique experience of an 'internal examination', complete with 'stretch and sweep' (not "scratch and sniff" as an aunty of Wifey likes to call it...), which was likely the primary contributor to Baby's move south.  This involves Doc skilfully reaching inside with two fingers to work out where Baby's hanging.  He then uses one finger to gently stretch the cervix, thus increasing the likelihood of Baby slipping on out.  All this was performed with the right hand while demonstrating what was going on with the left.  Like I said, a skilful operation, though I gather Wifey was too busy wondering if his right fingers were going to come out of her throat, to really be that interested in his left...

It was a couple of hours of machines beeping and midwives prodding before we were told we were staying and moved to the room that would become our home until such time as the little bundle came out of her hiding hole.  From there we 'settled' into a routine of my reading being interrupted by Wifey's moans, groans and strange animal noises.  Periodically a midwife would drop by and see how we were going, but otherwise it was she, me and our restless little burden.

Comforting a woman in labour is no easy feat.  In the initial stages you will feel the urge to be really hands on - relaxing massage, tender touch, squeeze of the hand.  She may even be receptive to start with.  But as time goes on, your touch becomes just another uncomfortable feeling she'd rather do without; miss the early warning signs and you risk unleashing the dragon.  You will feel entirely useless: the person you love most (hopefully) in this world is writhing in agony with an itch that can't be scratched, while you stand alongside going, "Um... is there anything I can do?"

I have spent a mere 36 hours in London, yet my family were on the underground on the morning of the 7th of July, 2005 (yes, on the same ill-fated overseas venture that left us stranded at an airport in a storm).  Fortunately we were on the opposite side of the Circle Line when the bombs went off, yet we still walked for hours in a city in chaos to reach our hotel, unsure of what was really happening, nor what would come next.  I can honestly say that the time spent on those streets that day was less stressful than my Christmas Day night 2012.  For hours, Wifey cried out in pain.  I did what I could - fetching water, ice, massaging feet when my touch was not fire, running a bath, helping her back out of the bath when it suddenly became unappealing.  I aided her with tasks of the variety that women generally conceal from their partners, so we may maintain the pure, sweet image of what we believe to be the sweeter sex.  Make no mistake, gentlemen: in labour you will see things that will never be unseen; consider your hands an extension of your wife's body.

There are a variety of pain relief options available to women in labour.  Wifey was determined to have the most 'natural' birth possible, so started with the gas.  This was thrown away in disgust as it proved worthless and I was sent for the midwife to administer the morphine needle that had been offered.  This proved to be good for little more than adding violent regurgitation to her growing list of pleasantries.  Finally, in a rare moment where life (particularly pregnant life) aligned with Hollywood's depiction, all 'birthing "plans"' were shamelessly disregarded and Wifey sent me for the epidural.  Fast.

Well (and Hollywood got this bit right too), there's no such thing as "fast" when it comes to epidurals.  A host of different experts are required and at 0500hrs (we're into Boxing Day now), for some reason they don't come any quicker. So there was still precious time left to spend with Wifey in the full labour experience.  As it was punctuated by lines such as, "I just want it to be over" and "Make the pain go away," I was left wondering if I would ever be here again.  Would I ever be able to convince Wifey that it would be a good idea to have another?

At 1530hrs the epidural was administered and sweet paralytic relief overcame Wifey from the waist down, though not before her allusive waters broke and splashed all over the bed.  Turns out they DO gush and there's no missing them when they come!  But in what I came to refer to as "the eye of the storm" - the calm that came when sweet epidural took away they pain, I realised that, for her at least, much of this would soon be forgotten.  Much like my first tattoo: at the time, as the "artist" (let's be honest, he was a hack without care for the permanent marks he was leaving on my body) tore into my flesh, I clenched my jaw and decided it would be my last - I had one now, after all.  Yet, 20 minutes later on the trip home I was already plotting what might come next.  Sure enough, more have followed; and I didn't even have the magical 'forget-this-experience' pregnancy hormones that women have.  This afternoon, Wifey made claims that she "must have blacked out at some point, 'cos [she] can't remember it all."  If only I could say the same!

To be continued...

Will We Have A Christmas Baby?

My family once found ourselves sitting in an airport waiting for a storm to break so we could fly.  For the first couple of hours we were certain the weather would clear and we would soon be on our way.  Around that point, one of our fellow wait-ees decided to crack open the fairly high end bottle of scotch he was carrying (Father was quick to befriend him).  A couple of hours on from that, we were certain we would fly: there was no way they'd keep us this long otherwise!  Eight hours after our scheduled departure (and long after the scotch had been drained), the flight was cancelled.  I'm yet to see Boston.  

The reason I'm bringing this old, sore point up, is that subconsciously I think a part of me is suspicious that this could happen with Baby.  A week ago, Wifey and I went to bed nightly expectant of a pre-dawn trip to the hospital.  We were prepared mentally and emotionally: as close to 'ready' as we would ever be.  And yet Baby would not come.  Yes, we tried all the different old wives' tales.  People swear by curry, sex and exercise.  I found a gym ball and made Wifey bounce on it.  I aimed for every pot hole I passed.  One website suggested "galloping" to help the baby drop, but Wifey simply refused to do Psy's "Gangnam Style" dance with me.

So after several mornings of waking and finding Wifey not in labour (as I hoped and expected she would be), my hope started to wane.  It has reached the point now where I no longer go to bed expecting to be awoken by a contraction-ridden Wifey.  In fact, some subconscious niggle is starting to say that maybe we missed Baby... maybe, like that flight to Boston, she's just not happening...

Of course, that thought process is lunacy.  Baby will come and chances are she'll choose the most inappropriate time.   Much like that old rhyme...

'Twas the night before Christmas,
And in Wifey's tummy,
A creature's still resting;
She's not yet a mummy.

And now we've come this far,
Why not one day more?
Let's just get through Christmas,
Before Baby's born.

We were ready a week ago,
You could have come then,
But no - you just stayed there,
But sure, you'll come when -

We've driven an hour,
To your grandparents-to-be,
A long way from hospital,
Yet close to the sea.

And the lunch will be ready,
A beer in my hand,
Surfboard not yet touched,
With the beach's sweet sand.

And 'splash': there'll go waters,
All over the floor,
And then, just like that,
We'll be up out the door.

Wifey puffing and heaving
And cursing this day,
And you watch: I'll sure cop it,
'Cos I took her away!

For at home (where we live)
The hospital's near,
There's not hours of driving,
And that shocking fear:

That time will run short
And 'hey presto!' you'll come;
Our baby born roadside,
Like that Mosman mum.

So hang on sweet baby,
You've lasted thus far,
And please don't come messing
Up our fresh new car.

Let Christmas pass by,
And then place your mark,
On a calendar day,
Where you're less in the dark -

Overshadowed forever,
By the birth of a lad,
Born of Mary, in manger,
With God as his dad.

More on him later,
Sure, in time you'll find,
How that very child,
Saved all of mankind.

But back to His birthday,
(Though not the real date)
'Tis the day recognised,
That we celebrate.

Making month of December,
On the day twenty five,
A terrible day,
For you to arrive.

So you just get comfy,
And stay where you rest,
While we meet with family,
And enjoy Christmas fest'.

But just two days later,
If you're yet to arrive,
We'll be back to see doctor
And in he will dive.

He'll rattle your world
And crack your cocoon;
Merry Christmas sweet daughter:
We'll be seeing you soon.

Awaiting The Arrival

You know when you're waiting for a train and although you know when it's scheduled to arrive, you're confident it will be late (history tells you it will be late);  but the chance - that slight, sweet chance - that it could be early has you restless?

Welcome to the 39th week of pregnancy.

As the due date looms like the sun's glow on the eastern horizon, the pending realities of the horrors that await me (yes, “me” – I’m getting selfish here) haunt me as a werewolf in the night.  Friends, family and acquaintances – guys in particular – are never backwards in coming forwards regarding their personal experiences.  I’m not sure who should be credited with the phrase, but it has oft been said that “watching your wife give birth is like watching your favourite pub burn down”.  The overriding impression I get is that were it not for the part where it all culminates with the arrival of a new life of my creation and Wifey’s incubation - a tiny, miniature, working fusion of ourselves - it would be undoubtedly be considered a “bad day”.

I expect that by now any female readers are dizzy with fury, heart beating fast, breath heavy, as they work out which variation on the old “you try sh**ing a watermelon and have someone else tell you how hard their day’s been” they are going to throw at me.  But if you’re still with me, please hear me out.

I have come to the conclusion that the reason I’ve been so troubled by the thought of The Day, is that it’s happening to Wifey, not me; and there’s nothing I can do to make it any easier.  (Yes, I know, my support and presence is very important - I'm told a tennis ball massage can be really soothing - but really it’s like offering a band-aid and a ‘kiss better’ to the child who’s just had their leg run over by a train.)

Were it me who was to bare the grunt of birth, I could be much more stoic and prepared.  After all, my idea of leisure regularly results in me limping back through the door, trying (in vain) to conceal the varying amounts of missing skin from worrisome (yet eternally-forgiving) Wifey.  BMX accidents aside, I have willfully sat through piercings, tattoos and even (thanks to a moment of questionable intelligence) a home-job branding.  None of these compare in the slightest to actual childbirth, I’m sure, however, it doesn’t feel right that it should be me standing by in complete (physical) wellness, as Wifey – who’s idea of leisure includes shopping, sleeping and being generally uninjured – writhes in agony.

So what is my role in all of this?  What do I do, how do I help?

Naturally, to find these answers and more you attend a birthing class.  Ours occurred in the back hall of a church under the stewardship of a long-time midwife, one-time mother and life-long tripper.  I will clarify: her information was good, her experience unquestionable and her course well polished and thorough.  However, over the 8 hour duration, on an unseasonably warm Saturday, in a room with broken air-conditioning and the unique ‘warmth’ (literal, not figurative) of a room full of pregnant women, her airy “Yeeahh…” – the start to her every response - wore a little thin.

From all of this, the general vibe that I got was that my role in birth is to actively not piss-off Wifey, as she struggles to deal with the wild ride that is labour.  It also blew my whole understanding of the process of labour (brought to me by the marvel of television) right out of the water.  It turns out that not only is it unlikely that the start of labour will be heralded by a gush of her 'waters' causing a slip hazard on the floor (apparently these frequently slip out unnoticed in a crowd, if you get what I'm saying, assuming they "break" at all...).  Neither will it then be necessary to throw her in the back of my car and  fly to the hospital ignoring all traffic lights and speed limits (so much for my dedicated practice sessions on Grand Theft Auto!).  Teacher also reckons that, as much as Hollywood hams it up, the whole screaming profanities at partners during pregnancy is a myth and she's never seen it...well maybe she hasn't been at the births of some of our friends, or maybe she's just too off with the fairies to notice, but we were assured that it happens and just not to take it personally, because neither does she mean it, nor will she remember it.

In fact, it seems as though the whole hand-clenching, ear-piercing, watermelon-sh**ing bit will be a welcome relief from the waiting, placating and massaging that is the first stage of labour!  Teacher tells us that many wives (granted, generally on the second swing at it) don't even tell their husbands the contractions have started, letting them go to work and thus give them space to de-stress and get on with this stage, which can last for hours.  Somehow I don't think Wifey's poker face (or nerves) would be sufficient to pull that one off.

For the first part of labour it's a matter of timing the contractions and calling the hospital.  We were told what interval should herald our departure, but Teacher said we didn't need to remember that for the test at the end, so it was immediately forgotten.  Hopefully the midwives remember.

Well the end is nigh and as much as the thought of the actual moments of birth still makes me a little nervous, really it's the waiting that's killing me.  I am impatient at the best of times and not having a set date to head for is really testing me!  Every time my phone vibrates in my pocket at work I wonder if this is The Call.  We are as ready as it's possible to be (though I'm under no illusion that I have no idea what's about to hit me).  I think I'm ready to meet my little girl.  Though tonight would be nice, before Christmas would be acceptable...