In my last blog, I discussed pregnancy from a chap’s point of view. Or at least mine, as it would be presumptuous to speak for all of male-kind! To summarise, I found it hard to support my partner while dealing with my own illness and navigating a medical world where a man is invisible.
Now, if that post didn’t put you off the idea of being a parent, let me treat you to the adventure that is childbirth.
To start, I will paint a picture with words. Imagine, if you will, that you are a sailor of old. Happily navigating a calm sea as a gentle breeze tugs at the rigging, filling the sails. You look over the bow and smile at the dolphins swimming, playing in the water as it breaks over the bow. Up ahead, you can see a storm. But you’re not worried. It’s a long way off and, even though you’ve never navigated one before, you’re sure you will cope.
Then, you blink, and the storm hits.
That’s childbirth!
“The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”
Theodore Hesburgh
The following are my experiences of the storm and how it affected my mental health. You may be different, so please, don’t be put off. It all works out in the end.
Nothing prepared me for the birth of my first child. I’d never witnessed a birth first hand, and I believed that fourteen years of being in the police had exposed me to worse things – I was so wrong!
Why? Because all those other, terrible, events had happened to people I didn’t know – this was happening to me.
Childbirth, even in developed nations, is risky. Risky in a way that no-one talks about. I do, as my wife and child nearly became a statistic. I don’t want to go into details as it is not my story to share, but I will reflect on how it affected me.
Last week I talked about feeling isolated; like watching the pregnancy pan out from above. A traumatic birth is far-far worse. In my case, the medics were so worried for baby that they even ignored Mum, marching into the delivery room in a continual stream, each face more worried than the last. Examining the beeping machines and labouring mum. Having quiet, hurried, conversations and disappearing again. None saying anything to either of us, other than asking my wife to ‘breathe, cough and push’.
I knew things were bad when the midwife who had been with us since the start and was due to go home, stayed on and sat with me while her replacement tended to my wife.
Kate was awesome, explaining what was happening while trying to keep me calm.
Despite her best efforts I felt utterly powerless. I was having to trust strangers with that which was most precious to me – my wife. It was hard to not get involved. At the time I was a very hands-on person and having to watch was difficult.
Mentally, I was too bewildered to feel anything! Anxiety, depression, panic – all lost and replaced with a worry like I’ve never experienced. But I didn’t know what about, I just knew something was wrong.
Then, in a heartbeat, she was being rushed out of the room with a cordon of doctors running in advance of her bed, screaming at others to move out of the way with voices more effective than any police siren.
I was dragged out of my seat by Kate and pushed along the corridor into another room with beds and a door to the theatres. That is where Kate left, and I was alone as my wife and child were being rushed through an emergency c-section.
“The purpose exceeds the pain.”
Beth Moore
Sitting alone, that’s when the what ifs hit. What if she dies? What if the baby dies? Mr Anxiety started to raise his horrid head.
This carried on until I heard my daughter’s cry from the operating theatre and I knew all would be fine. Don’t ask me how I knew, as I didn’t know anything about my wife. It was like a sixth sense.
Mentally, I cannot say how the experience affected me long term. As I said previously, I felt like a spare part in the whole process. It was humbling, terrifying and a thousand other feelings. There was no time to internalise, which is the plague of those with mental health issues. As within an hour, I went from watching 6:10 from Yuma on the tv, to sitting in a bright, antiseptic room, fearing I may lose my wife. She tells me that it left me terrified of going back to the hospital. You see, I’d had three negative pregnancy experiences in the place and was convinced the next would be just as bad – which would cause issues when she got pregnant again.
However, once my daughter was born there wasn’t any time to think – which was a good thing as it stopped my mind causing havoc!
Trying again!
Daughter number two was so much easier. I was not allowed in the delivery room – my wife’s decision. She knew I was stressing over the what ifs for child number two, and she didn’t need to be worrying about me while giving birth.
So, I sat in a waiting room and read a book, while watching a steady stream of expecting mums going outside for a cigarette! My brother did come to keep me company for a few hours as well. It was a nice, easy birth for Dad. I did feel a fraud, though. Like I was wimping out and hiding from the nasty stuff. My wife, ever the good judge of character, could see that I had not dealt with the first birth and wanted me out of the way.
To be honest, I’ve spoken to current and former midwives since, as I was a little ashamed of not being in the room for either birth. All have said they wished no dads were present, ever. Fretting fathers stress the whole process, apparently.
For more on dads in the delivery room, see this article from the BBC.
“But where is the father?”
Quoted from https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-21701683
Historically, dads never have been present at births, it is a modern phenomenon – my own father was made to sit outside the delivery room for my brother and I in the 70’s. I believed that a caring dad had to be there for the births, and I felt some shame that I had not been present for either one. Now, two children and sixteen years later, I realise that belief is utter rubbish. What my wife needed was to know she was cared for and that experts were helping her. She didn’t need to be worrying about me.
The real work of being a dad starts after birth. Your mental health will be stretched in ways you cannot imagine- which I will discuss next week.
To conclude, do I have any tips for inexperienced dads?
Do what is right for you and your partner. You do not have to be in the room, unless your partner needs you there.
You, if in the UK, will be at her head, so will not see much.
Switch your brain off, because it can be quite a horrid experience.
Finally, keep your ass in the seat and your mouth shut, let the experts work.
Best of health,
Steve