It had been a relatively smooth transition from home to hospital despite me re-entering the house twice, first for my wallet and then again for my glasses. Following that, I made terrible jokes like: “Did you remember your shoes?” Not much of a joke and more of a statement but that’s what I do when I am uncomfortable. Finally, on arrival at the hospital, I gave the ward receptionist cause for concern when I shouted “HERE FOR BABY!” down the intercom, and pressed the side of my face against the small windowpane. But it was a 2:00am and Ana had a small human inside her, wanting to escape. I was flustered to say the least.
Upon entering our wide, brightly lit room at the hospital, Ana started removing all items of clothing from her person, and perched herself on the edge of a chair, leaning on the bed in front. With her knees at 10 and 2, it was more than apparent that she was embracing her natural instincts, whilst it seemed I was fighting mine by remaining in the room.
But then I was able to breath a sigh of relief as Ana breathed in a few breaths of gas and air. It was an instant hit – literally, in Ana’s case. She sucked in another couple breaths, and then a few more. Moments later she was swaying in a circular motion slurring: “My mouth feels like Mick Jagger’s. Here, you have some.” Already at ease by her alleviated pain, I declined and I thought it best that one of us keep our wits about us.
It was then that our midwife, a woman of comfortable proportions, arrived panting in competition with Ana although she had only walked to and from the elevator. She had to have a seat to catch her breath. I wondered who’s looking after whom here.
After a minute she came over to Ana, who was as high as a kite, and laughed. “I think you seem to be enjoying that a little too much,” she said. “How about you get up on the bed and we see how you are coming along?”
I had to prize the tube from Ana’s reluctant fingers and help her onto the bed.
“Oh wow, you did leave it until the last minute. You are 10cms already. We need to get you pushing,” the midwife said.
“But the gas,” Ana pleaded.
“No,’’ said the midwife. “We need you alert and focused now.”
Ana climbed onto the bed, which was positioned at an incline, and rested her arms over the top. I made my way to the head of the hospital bed and faced Ana. She had her eyes closed and was concentrating on her breathing. My stomach did a flip. This is actually happening.
Ana was told to push, the kind of pushes that will eventually lead up to the big push, and all I could do was stand and watch. I wanted to be helpful but I didn’t want to break her focus to ask how.
I reached for the icy cold flannel I had prepared earlier, and rested it against Ana’s beading forehead. I assumed we were moments away from the birth, but I looked over Ana’s shoulder and saw the midwife having a chat with her young trainee at the business end: “How is your Mum doing? Has she moved house yet?” It seemed we weren’t at the critical stage just yet.
So I continued with the flannels as before, I raised a straw to her lips when she seemed to need water, and popped ice cubes in her mouth when she half opened it. I carried these actions with the same caution required when one plays Buckaroo. Several times I received a short, sharp “NO,” so I would move to the next in sequence.
Ana had now been in this position for 45 minutes, and in this time the baby had been working its way down the birthing canal. Ana looked to be in quite a lot of pain, but in total control. The midwife said it was time to start doing some big pushes. Ana took a breath and then push as hard as she could for 15-16 seconds. How she knew what and how to push is beyond me. After several intervals, with her cheeks flushed and brows knitted, it was clear Ana was exhausted. I felt terrible for her, but she was doing so well, and I kept telling her so.
After another couple of pushes, the midwife said she could see the top of the head, and then asked if I would like to see. This was the only time Ana opened her eyes. I guess she’d prefer me not to see her from that angle but I was genuinely curious and I was given the ok.
As I joined the midwife at the end of the bed, I was amazed to see the scene before me. I once read a man describing it as similar to seeing his favorite pub burn down. I, however, couldn’t quite comprehend what I was seeing. This wasn’t a part of Ana’s body, it was science-fiction. The top of a cricket-ball-sized cranium was showing down to what was clearly a tiny forehead.
I returned to my post, enlightened yet stunned.
The midwife told Ana that she now had to do some deep, long pushes to get the rest of the head out. I counted seconds aloud so Ana had a target to aim for with her pushes but it was clear she was exhausted and in a lot of pain. Never the less, she continued, one push after another, and another, and another…and then the expression on her face changed. It had relaxed, and she didn’t seem in pain anymore.
I had been so fixated on Ana’s pain that when it subsided, I hadn’t thought what it really meant. Placing my fingertips on Ana’s shoulders, I stepped towards the midwife, and there in her hands, laid a tiny new born baby. Despite 282 days of pregnancy, 48 hours of labour and 1.25 hours of pushing, it seemed this baby had appeared from nowhere. I raised my hands over my head and intertwined my fingers. Bewildered and overwhelmed, I burst into tears.
The baby, a little purple in colour, peppered in a creamy substance, and still attached by the umbilical cord, was passed back to Ana as she righted herself on the bed. Holding this tiny new life against her chest, Ana and I made eye contact. Whilst I still have a trace of it in my memory, I cannot find any words to convey to you the way I felt at that moment. If I had to choose a few words I would say, in awe, overwhelmed, overjoyed and in love. But in truth, they don’t even come close.
At 04:16am, Tuesday 26th April 2016, my beautiful, strong and capable Ana sat, holding our little baby girl.
Consider the cake iced.
