When we left you last time I was trying to sensitively juggle the conflicting goals of getting my membrane leaking wife to the hospital while also retaining that new car smell. Not an easy thing to do without offending a contracting wife, and it seems that emotion makes her leak even more – oh the pressure……
The drive to the hospital was an issue in itself. Thanks to my incessant hectoring of the midwife we were heading in well before it was ‘panic stations’, so the traditional race to the hospital didn’t seem necessary. At the same time my ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ effort through downtown Caringbah, managing to get every red light, didn’t seem to impress Krys much either if the ever wettening towel was an accurate guide. Anyway, after a 10min drive that took 20, we grabbed a park out the front (one advantage of an evening kick-off) and squelched / waddled (Krys squelched, I waddled) up to the maternity birthing suites. Strangely the midwife didn’t embrace me with unbridled enthusiasm after our extensive and protracted phone interactions. Instead she was a mixture of nonchalance and abruptness. This seemed to harden further as I walked her through what stage of labour I currently saw the birth at, how I saw it progressing from here, and the specific actions and associated timings we would need from her on the way through. Her comment of ‘why don’t you just relax Trent and we’ll take care of this – we’ve done this a few times before’ was said in a tone that had me doubting whether she truly had my relaxation level at the front of her mind.
But we settled into Birthing Suite No 3 where Krys was hooked up to what looked like giant elastic bands. And these bands were doing a much more sophisticated version of ‘contraction checking’ than my beeping watch could ever manage. You could see on the printout when a contraction was on the way as the line would start to gyrate and rise up like a massive pain mountain to be followed by groans from Krys shortly afterwards. I was fascinated by the machine, and had started to anticipate the pain mountains a little bit too much for Krys’ liking. My smile and cries of ‘Ooow baby, here comes another one’ at the first sign of a rising graph line had Krys giving me a look that said that if she wasn’t physically incapacitated by the pain of a contraction, she would love to get up and fling her remaining mucus plug in my face.
We were only 30mins into the game of pain mountains when Krys asked for a back massage. Now while I was more than happy, willing, and prepared to play my part in the pain relief process (especially given the fitball incident) such a request seemed slightly premature. I had roughly mapped out how I saw a standard 8hr labour unfolding – I would start by distracting her from the pain with witty conversational pieces and after those 30seconds were up I would fall back on TV and DVD’s. Interspersed with this would be songs from the specially prepared playlist I had compiled (although in retrospect 60mins worth of songs meant I was going to have to be very selective). Mix that in with hourly showers and I saw the ‘big guns’ of the massage only being pulled out on the homeward stretch. So a request for a backrub this early seemed to be jumping the gun – especially given my back rub moves are very limited and my hands get tired easily. So instead of the backrub Krys got a short dissertation on the potential 2 state solution for the Israel / Palestine conflict before a turning on of the TV. With my early stage pain management done I flopped back into the chair to flick through some emails with a smug little smile.
But it seemed that the pain was starting to increase a little more quickly than my 8hr mapping – so the nurse decided to check the stage of dilation. Now I had some mental image of ‘dilation checking’ being done with a fancy scanning wand providing specific dilation measurements, and for these along with detailed images of the birth canal to be flashed up on an LCD screen. Instead the process involved a midwife, a rubber glove, and some hand actions that I last witnessed when a neighbour was trying to dislodge some tricky leaves that were stuck inside the top of his drainpipe. Given the midwife’s efforts I know who to call next time the flow from the laundry sink starts to struggle due to lint getting caught in the S bend. She removed her fingers / hand / elbow to announce ‘this is progressing pretty quickly actually – you are already 5cms dilated’. After what I saw I would have assumed Krys was at least 30cms dilated – but who am I to argue – maybe the midwife’s wrist was skinnier than I thought? She finished off her dilation check session with a wonderful manoeuvre called a ‘sweep’. This sounds all nice and sedate until you realise it involves trying to crudely ‘stretch’ the baby exit path. It took me back to those first few times around 3rd base where my repertoire involved something similar, mixed in with a move best described as a DJ on speed. I had a lot to learn (who am I kidding – I still do).
Anyway mid sweep the midwife invited me around for a look. Now I had promised myself I would not go ‘downtown’ (watching favourite pub burn down and all that) but curiosity got the better of me – and what I saw was both amazing and therapy inducing at the same time. By now the downstairs area was starting to bulge, and resembled a bowling ball trying to force its way out of a coin slot. And the midwife was doing her best to ensure that the slot could at least eject 50c pieces. Then I was invited for a ‘look inside’. While kicking myself that I hadn’t included the Play School theme song on the playlist for this moment (how fitting would those lyrics have been?) I had a look and saw a large clump of hair deep inside the birth pipe. By now the midwife knew she was dealing with a simple man so cut off my confused look with a ‘no your wife doesn’t need internal waxing – that is the top of your baby’s head – and your little girl has plenty of hair’.
Given my 8hr labour map had just been severely compressed, I was now a mess and had no idea where I was up to. For a start I had missed the labour halfway point, so a key playlist song complete with specially prepared lyrics had been lost. Me belting out ‘whooa, you’re halfway there, whooa you should have shaved your pubic hair’ to Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’ now seemed pointless. So I flicked TV channels only to be told to ‘turn that sh#t off’. Thanks non-ratings period late night TV – you could have at least thrown me some re-runs of Friends. Actually I take that back – I would prefer to personally suffer through a horrendous labour than have to sit through 30mins of being mentally assaulted by humour that begins and ends with exaggerated facial expressions and canned laughter. So with TV out, on went the song playlist and again it was met with a bark to keep the sound down – in Krys’ defense it was a Meatloaf song that appeared to exacerbate rather than relieve the pain. So it was down to the backrub – I stepped up, started rubbing and was told within 30 seconds to stop – I was actually making it worse. So I was reduced to standing there like a useless clump (a position I am familiar with) – no music, no tv, no backrub…. And a moaning wife just trying to concentrate on getting through the pain. Without a plan my intuitive reaction was to start patting her head and saying ‘good girl’ like she was a dog that had just successfully retrieved a far-flung stick. The look she flashed indicated that if i didn’t stop that immediately I would be neutered using her unused ‘Venus’ razor blades as soon as her capacity to move returned.
Given how advanced we had suddenly found ourselves it was decision time regarding the epidural. Krys had been fairly reluctant to take this on, and was initially planning to get through the pain using some calm breathing, a bit of gas, and a mental retreat into her ‘Happy Place’. As much as I’d like to think this Happy Place involved me dancing seductively to a Kenny Rogers / Dolly Parton duet in her underpants, I think in reality this place would be Trent free, and instead be a land where hair never got frizzy and Bon Jovi fed her grapes while singing her one of his two songs while shirtless (I realise Bon Jovi has more than two songs but to me they are all so bland they meld into two – a slow one and a fast one. But maybe it is just jealousy that my wife lusts after a man that could almost qualify for a concessional bus pass while still being in better shape than me?). But in reality, it was becoming apparent that this ‘Happy Place’ approach was not going to work. Maybe her Happy Place was ruined when she finally realised Bon Jovi would have grey chest hair? Anyway with the pain escalating quickly, the flare was sent up for the anaesthetist.
Our midwife, who was slowly warming to me (well she no longer gritted her teeth when she looked in my direction) sauntered back into the room after making the call to say ‘he is on his way. He lives in Maroubra so should be here in around 30mins’. ’30minutes!?’ Krys and I said in unison, in barely concealed ‘what the f#ck’ voices. How ironic that I had spent a large part of my life wishing that 2mins was really 30, and now found myself wanting that whole equation turned on its head. Sure enough 5mins into the waiting zone Krys was groaning her way through a particularly nasty contraction and drew breath long enough only to yell ‘where the f#ck is he?’. Whether she was referring to Bon Jovi or the anaesthetist I couldn’t be 100% sure. But either way, neither of them were in any way close by.
At this point the midwife suggested that Krys try the gas. She grabbed it with both hands and sucked so hard I thought she was going to turn the machine inside out (note: an inappropriate but what I thought highly amusing joke has been removed from here during the editing process. ie Krys demanded that I take it out). But after the Krys suck-a-thon was done the tube was roughly flung away and a cry of ‘this gas doesn’t do sh#t!’ rang across the birthing suite. This actually gave me some comfort – I now had a chance of shifting the title of ‘most useless thing in the delivery room’ even if it was to an inanimate object. Before this I think I was even sitting behind the unused TV, and an empty box of tissues.
But finally after what felt like 3 series worth of Friends, our slightly dazed anaesthetist appeared in the doorway. Krys was so happy to see him that I think if it wasn’t for a similar activity placing her in her current predicament, she would have leapt off the bed and humped him. All of Krys’ concerns from the ante-natal class about the size of the needle going into her back quickly fell away – I think they could have tried to drive a blunt cricket stump in there and Krys still would have happily complied. So with some hard pushing (they don’t muck around driving that needle in) followed by some shivers so intense they reminded me of the last time I asked Krys for an open mouth kiss, the magic of the epidural started to work. Krys had almost instantly been transformed from a yelling, frothing monster to a content little sleepy bear. And the added bonus was that she could no longer get up and move meaning I now had some more latitude for my behaviour before having to fear any physical retribution.
But coinciding with Krys’ pain relief was a retracement in the relationship I had with the midwife. I had developed a bit of a headache so my comment of ‘well now that we have that under control, do you know where I could find some aspirin?’ was met with a look from the midwife of utter contempt. The fact that sissy boy needed medical assistance to deal with some minor head throbbing while his wife was having her insides brutally contort to try to deliver our baby was something she obviously struggled to get her head around. My useless attempts at justification with a girly cry of ‘I sometimes get migraines’ didn’t cut me much slack. But off she went to fetch me some aspirin – although I felt I was rolling the dice putting the tablets in my mouth on her return. I half expected her to come back with super strength laxatives. And I’m sure if she had the ability to give one drug to anyone at all, she would have skipped back in time and given the ‘Morning After’ pill to my mother approximately 37yrs ago.
My headache diversion was just winding down when Krys’ dilation reached a point that I had genuine fears that the midwife might lose her entire upper body if she got too vigorous with the final check – I felt like I should tie a rope around her and secure her to the door frame before allowing her to go full dilation exploring. But when she was done it was official; it was almost push time. So it was time for our final medical related flare to be sent out – to our obstetrician. The midwife had seemed pretty intent on finishing the job herself but given to date the obstetrician had been paid large amounts of money to look at my wife’s v#gina and occasionally measure her fundus, I figured the least he could do was a midnight run to Kareena Hospital to field at first slip, however briefly.
Thankfully unlike the anaesthetist our obstetrician was a fan of living close enough to his workplace to not require a commercial flight, and was present inside 10mins. He had a quick look around (ie one last look at my wife’s downstairs before the real brutality began – to be honest I had a final nostalgic look too) then made the announcement we had been waiting for – it was push time. This was the moment I had been planning for months. I asked the midwife and obstetrician to just hold off for a second, as I had something that I knew would help proceedings. So back to the stereo I went, skipped through the playlist and settled on my masterpiece….. And the dulcet tones of Salt and Pepper, and their 1990 hit ‘Push It’ filled the delivery suite. ‘Oow baby baby… Baby baby….. Oow baby baby….. Bababy baby….. Ah Push It…. Get up on this…… Ah Push It…… Push it real good’…… I could barely contain my internal high 5’s and let out a little self-satisfied giggle. Imagine my surprise to look across at the 3 other faces in the room and see in unison not a look of Salt and Pepper appreciation and joy, but a look of disbelief that dad-to-be would hold up birthing proceedings for a misplaced attempt at 90’s music based humour. Salt and Pepper were sadly dispatched before they could really get warmed up. Which is probably what they prefer these days anyway given their advancing years and declining physical ability. The last time I saw them was at V Festival about 4yrs ago and after an enthusiastic opening the back half of their hit song resembled two middle-aged women huffing their way through a rigorous session of jazzercise mixed with karaoke. So with the stereo off and a humbled husband back on silent brow-mopping duties (and I was lucky to even retain that role) Krys got herself into the push position. She was sitting up in the bed, with legs askew – one leg jammed on the obstetrician’s chest and the other over the midwife’s shoulder. Then it was on………
Krys would suck in a deep breath, start groaning and puuuushhhh. Her face would go bright red and contort into a shape that was both frightening but comforting – comforting in so far as while Krys was pulling the twisted up ‘squeeze out a baby’ face, it was a window in time when for once it didn’t look like I was punching so ridiculously above my weight. Sure I would still be the ‘reacher’, but with a red, contorted, vein popping facial at least it looked like Krys was trying to bring herself down to be roughly around my hit zone. Through it all our obstetrician was so calm; like he was still half asleep after being pulled from his bed at midnight to face a situation so familiar he felt he could punch through it without fully interrupting his sleep cycle. After each push he would sleepily murmur ‘hmmm yes good effort Krystal. Now on the count of 3, let’s go again. 1, 2, rrrggggghhhhh’.
After about 20mins of trying to turn herself inside out, the moment I had been most apprehensive about had arrived. The obstetrician announced ‘your baby is crowning – Trent do you want to come and have a look?’. I figured I had already broken my ‘staying topside’ plan with the whole sweep inspection, so made my way around to get a closer look at proceedings. But the sweep imagery had nothing on this – this time I was greeted by what looked like the top of a particularly hairy coconut trying to force its way through an o-ring 3 sizes too small – but the coconut was determined to win the fight. It would force it’s way forward before retreating slightly, then inch forward again before slipping back some more. This show delivered me a mix of nausea and a sudden craving for a Bounty Coconut bar. But before I could go hunting for the nearest Hospital vending machine the call was made for one final, big, panting push. At this point it was like I was watching a car accident – I knew the imagery would scar for me forever but I couldn’t bring myself to turn away. Krys’ face went bright red and she panted like an exhausted but determined puppy that had been chasing a particularly nimble squirrel for too long in the hot sun. Whhooo whhhhooo whhhhoo rggghhhhh whhhooo whhhooo whoooo rggggghhhhhhhaaaaa – And finally….. after a squeeze that seemed to last longer than a lunchtime wait at Medicare, the coconut popped out. And left me with an image that was the most remarkable but haunting thing I’d ever seen – the head of our baby girl hanging out in the harsh light, blinking and moving her little mouth before letting out a piercing cry.
After some shifting and twisting moves that had me suspecting he was a removalist in a previous life (I bet he could have got our table out of our old front door without having to take the legs off) the rest of our baby was out. And now there she was, lying in all of her blood and mucus splendour on mum’s chest. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen (and a few years ago I caught a brief glimpse of Jessica Alba when she was in Sydney for a promotional tour – so I don’t say that lightly).
It is only after that initial euphoric rush starts to die down that you can properly survey the post birthing scene. I genuinely think I could have murdered a whole family of haemophiliacs with a combination of a hacksaw and a mix master and leave less of a mess that what was currently in the room. I almost wanted to ask the midwife to do a final inspection to ensure that there were any internal organs still left within Krys’ body. After a wipe down with some industrial sized Kleenex (I think a hose down would have been more efficient) and some congratulatory words our obstetrician departed to return to his dream sequence (although how he possibly sleeps after seeing that imagery day after day is beyond me). And we were left in the room; just me, Krys and our beautiful baby girl.
It was only then that we realised that in all of the unexpected rush and excitement we hadn’t called our families to let them know that ‘Game Day’ had commenced early. I think our early morning phone call flurry led to a spike in Telstra call volumes as well as a solid increase in congestion in the traffic network. And it seems Emelia is in for a whole lot of love judging by how many cuddles and kisses she received in her first few hours from the extended family. Even after I pointed out that now they leave the mucus on the baby for a few days, so kissing her was the equivalent of kissing Krys’ hoo-ha, the affection couldn’t be deterred – the only response my comment drew was that my 4hr old baby had already surpassed me in terms of maturity. It was hard for me to argue.
So much has happened since little Emelia has arrived and changed our lives. For a start I no longer mind being poo’d, wee’d and vomited on. Which is surprising as I have never been tempted to explore the outer reaches of German erotic culture. But I’ll save that for later (if I ever get time to write anymore – these baby things seem to consume absurd amounts of time – but are so worth it)…….
Trent, Krystal and Emelia
smallthoughts 