Moments
A father’s reflections on the traumatic birth of their child
“This baby is coming today, one way or the other.”
I wasn’t overly shocked when the midwife told us that. This was our second child so the signs of labour were familiar, plus the water breaking was a definite indication that the birth wouldn’t be too far away. We drove my carefully planned route along the back roads to the hospital, and within 30 minutes we were in the delivery suite. It was a different room to last time, but it felt the same nonetheless. A bed was in one corner, a birthing pool in another, and somewhere a machine was going ping. The walls were a warm brown colour, which matched the bed covers, but overall the room had a clinical feel.
As the evening went on it became clear that the birth wouldn’t go to plan. The baby was becoming quite stressed and a call was quickly made for an emergency c-section. We were soon in an operating theatre, and from there it all started going further downhill, rapidly. The anaesthetist was having a lot of trouble getting the epidural in and my wife was in more agony than I could ever have imagined a human being suffering. The midwife was doing her best to try to calm her down, nurses were standing around, waiting for the moment they could help. One of the doctor’s approached me and said in a calm voice,
“If this goes to general anaesthetic you cannot stay in the room, you will be asked to leave, do you understand?”
I understood what he was saying, and it terrified me.
I could see the frustration in the anaesthetist’s face, this was not going to end well. I was told to stand back, not to approach. A few minutes later the doctor came to me and asked me to quietly leave, that they now needed to operate to save the child. As I was being escorted out of the room I took one last look at my wife, she was now in such intense pain I don’t think she was aware of what was happening. The scene was completely chaotic. The anaesthetist was pleading with her to stay still, nurses were doing their best to help keep her calm, and doctors were busy sticking leads onto every available patch of skin. The midwife was kneeling on the ground pushing her head through the jumble of legs. She placed a stethoscope on my wife’s stomach, and as I left I heard her say,
“I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.”
Two seconds later I was alone in a deserted corridor.
A moment is defined as a period of ninety seconds. I’ve no idea how many moments I spent alone in that corridor, but they were the scariest of my life.
I wanted to immediately bang on the doors and find out if they were ok, but I knew I couldn’t. The sheer silence of the corridor stunned me. I looked around. It was a long corridor with double doors on either end, and several small rooms branching off it. It was tiled with some horrible off white colour which reminded me of that room in Saw.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat. What did that mean? Did it just mean that she was having trouble locating it? Did it mean the baby had moved and she just couldn’t find which way round it was? Or did it mean the one scenario I didn’t want to even think about. I could feel my throat contracting, tears forming as I thought of that possibility. I knew I needed to distract myself from the thoughts. I started to pace the corridor. I looked up at the ceiling and counted the lights. Seven. Why did hospitals have to be so bright?. All the rooms off the corridor had the lights turned off. I guessed they were mostly recovery rooms and wouldn’t need to be lit all the time.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat. The words were echoing around my mind. I had no idea what was happening beyond those theatre doors. I sat on the floor, my back to the wall, staring into a largely empty room just in front of me. I guessed this is where they would wheel the bed with my wife in it afterwards. But would that happen now? Today we should be welcoming a new life into the world, now I didn’t know if either would survive. The thoughts were eating me away inside. I wanted to curl up into a ball, make them go away. My hands, resting on my knees, started shaking. By now I could make out a clock ticking faintly from another room.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat. I thought of our first born, at home with the babysitter. They would be expecting my call about now. When I do get to call, what will I be telling them? Would I be telling them about a new child, or something much worse. I vowed at that moment that if it came to that, that I wouldn’t do it over a phone call. There would be no way I could find the words. I started to picture that scene, formulating the words, I couldn’t help it. I had to stop these thoughts, they were destroying me, I could feel it. I looked at the floor and tried to count the tiles. There were six across, that was easy. How many along the corridor? About fifty three that I could make out from my position. It was hard to be certain. That would make the corridor about four metres by thirty, seemed about right.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat. I knew I’d drive myself insane if I kept repeating those words to myself, but I couldn’t get them out of my mind. I got up and paced again. The silence of the corridor once again overwhelmed me. I thought of my parents, 20,000km away in Ireland, and of my wife’s parents in England. I couldn’t call them, what could I say? What could they say? Nothing. Nothing could be said right now that could help in any way. All that call would do is cause them to worry. They had no idea that this was happening right now, labour had come on so fast that we didn’t have time to let them know. Nothing positive could come from that phone call.
“Are you alright?”
I looked up. A nurse had entered the corridor. How on earth had I not heard her come in?
I explained the situation, holding back as much emotion as I could. I didn’t want her to be involved, I knew there was nothing she could say, I didn’t want her to try.
“Well, they’re in good hands in there.”
With that she entered one of the rooms, grabbed something and exited the corridor as quietly as she had entered it.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat. I paced again. Silence surrounded me once more. Had the clock stopped? Why couldn’t I hear it? I paused and listened for it. It was still ticking, I had been pacing in perfect harmony with it without realising. Now that I had stopped all the thoughts I’d been avoiding came flooding into my mind. I sat again, tears were flowing down my cheeks. All the worst case scenarios were flooding my brain, I couldn’t stop them. I rubbed my face dry, my eyes stung.
I got up, stopped by the door to the operating theatre, straining to hear anything coming from inside. I couldn’t hear a sound. I walked on, counting the tiles as I went. I caught sight of my reflection in the window between the corridor and one of the rooms and almost didn’t recognise myself. It scared me.
I turned around at the end of the corridor and stared again at the operating theatre doors. I had no idea how much time had elapsed. I walked back towards them, went past, turned around, walked past again. I repeated this many times, each time hoping the door would burst open as I passed it. It never happened.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.
I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.
Then suddenly the silence was broken. Through the doors of the theatre came the unmistakable sounds of a baby crying.
I sat on the floor once more. This time I let the tears flow freely.
Five minutes later the midwife came through the doors and handed me our newborn baby.
“Both are fine, your wife will be brought out shortly. The baby took quite a few minutes to breath on their own but is absolutely fine now. Don’t worry, the baby always had oxygen during that time, and won’t be bad at maths or anything, all is good.”
It wasn’t long after when my wife was brought out and the three of us were together for the first time in that recovery room I’d spent so much time staring into. Holding the child in my arms, I looked towards the corridor and once again caught sight of my reflection in the window. The image smiling back at me felt like a very different person to the one who only a few moments ago had been anxiously pacing up and down that corridor.
