The Delivery

It's been two days since and it's taken that long for me to recover from the trauma of delivery. Seriously. I didn't dare mention it yesterday for fear of bringing back bad memories :)

Rest assured, I haven't suddenly asked for a transfer to OBGYN. God forbid. Although obstetrics is a mandatory posting for all of us in medicine - and I did enjoy my time there with the screaming, occasionally rabidly psychotic ( understandable, I should think ) mothers-to-be and the equally harassed staff in the delivery suite, I've relegated most of my obstetrics experience to the back of my mind as things to be forgotten since it's highly unlikely I'd be caught between the naked thighs of a screaming, hyperventilating woman anytime soon.

Frequently we see bloody gory scenes of delivery highlighted on television - with the prerequisite scene of the anxious father-to-be fainting over the indescribable sight to canned laughter. The blood and the gore is unfortunately true but although more than a few women subscribe to such dramatic hysterics when faced with the unbearable pain, they actually remain in the minority.

Instead of remaining crouched at the end of the table as the doctor awaiting the baby, I finally got the opportunity to be on the other side for once. You'll be forgiven for imagining all sorts of lurid National Enquirer conclusions - I would have imagined pretty much the same myself. It's not true though. I haven't traded my subscription to Gay Times for FHM as yet and despite my vague desires to be a father, the lady isn't the unfortunate surrogate mother of my unborn child either.

A close colleague of mine, let's call her Silently Screaming Mimi for today, had her unwelcome contractions during the day that I was on-call and an epidural was placed to allay her pains - and her obvious distress. There was no way to ascertain whether her epidural worked since she replied to every question with an unintelligible, monosyllabic grunt - akin to my Neanderthal phone conversations.

Later in the midst of my relatively busy call, I came over for a review around midnight - to check on her epidural - only to find her bearing down for delivery and I was dragged in by the obstetrician ( who's no longer any friend of mine! ) to provide moral support - in lieu of her errant husband who's unsurprisingly AWOL. In retrospect, I guess I was the best choice since as a gay man, I wouldn't be in the least bit interested in her bloody bits.

Thankfully Screaming Mimi did no verbal abuse / bashing of any sort - confining her acute distress to heated glares at any males in close contact and the occasional grunt of suppressed anger during her contractions - but my beautiful 100% cotton shirt isn't going to look the same anymore after the way she tore at my collar. Still I managed to maintain my composure as best I could while yelling at the top of my voice for her to bloody hell push.

Obviously coaching and moral support works since there's a three kg bouncing baby somewhere in town right now being nursed. After her stoic and silent experience, Mimi was surprisingly calm after delivery, and thanked me profusely for being there - but after my unprecedented and possibly unwelcome appearance at such a private moment, I don't know how we're gonna face each other tomorrow :)


Certainly wouldn't mind him as a coach...
Certainly not to undermine the essential role mothers play but it actually left me with a far more appreciative outlook on the fathers' role. Although it's wonderful to have the fathers physically present at the delivery, they unfortunately do seem almost superfluous in such a setting and I've always wondered what goes through their minds as they watch the delibery of their baby. Horror? Fear? Relief? Do they worry about the impact they're gonna have on the new life? Do they feel the sudden enormous responsibility weigh heavy on their shoulders? Do they wonder whether the oozing gore will permanently gonna stain their shirts?

Still despite feeling terribly awkward being there, I think I made a relatively good coach :)