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Birth, Not For the Squeamishbywritten May, 2002 I'd been told that the birth of a child is a beautiful miracle. Well, it may be a miracle but it certainly isn't beautiful. It's gross. There's all this blood, mucus, amniotic fluid and God knows what else. It's not for the squeamish. It's a scene with gross out factor to rival Alien or The Thing. I'm at Tammy's right side, holding her right leg and my left arm is supporting her back to help her push. All the time, I'm trying not to look down at her privates because the Lamaze videos showed a transformation to Guccione's favorite close-up region that makes it seem like a completely alien landscape. It isn't the airbrushed, coiffed penthouse fantasy anymore. It's a battlefield. So, I spend my time looking at Tammy's face to see if there's anything to indicate that she's in any non-labor par-for-the-course distress. Then the nurse chimes in, "I can see the head! Hey Dad, look at the head. Look! Look!" Both Tammy and I have discussed this. We're still hoping to have sex again after she gives birth. She's worried that I'm going to be scarred for life because she's not too keen on what she saw in the Lamaze video either. Anyway, Tammy can't see what's going on because her belly is in the way. So, I oblige the nurse and look for a millisecond. "Oh yeah," I reply. Sure enough, way down there is the head. It gets worse. The doctor and his assistant come in. They fire up the floodlights, making my wife's crotch look like a crime scene. They're both covered from head to toe in splash guards. It's all one step below environmental suits. And here I am in a long sleeve shirt and jeans. "Uhhhh, do I need to be wearing something?" "Oh no," is the doc's reply, "You're safely out of the way over there. I wear all this because I've been splashed before." I immediately picture Shamu leaping out of the water at Sea World and wonder just what the doc means. So now I've got 3 people, under floodlights, staring into my wife's crotch. I keep telling myself that these people are professionals. To them, it's just a job, even though what they're doing along my wife's cervix would get them killed any other time or place. And Tammy is dealing with it too. She had to psyche herself up for giving birth about a month ago. She never wanted a bunch of strangers staring at her like this. Anyway, they're all coaching her to push, massaging her cervix to help the baby come out, while I hold a leg. Finally out he comes. I'm surprised to see that he is indeed a he. My gut was telling me that the baby was going to be a girl. This supposedly 99.6% accurate Chinese Birthing Calendar said that the baby was going to be a girl. And plenty of other people told us that the baby was going to be a girl. "It's a boy," I say starting to choke up but determined not to cry in front of these strangers. I'm offered a pair of scissors by the doc's assistant to cut the umbilical cord. "No thanks," I say. "Are you sure?" Oh yeah I'm sure. Ignoring the obvious symbolism of the father severing the cord that connects mother and son, is the sheer grossness of the act. Eeeewwww! Besides, I'm a klutz. We're having the cord blood preserved for Alex's stem cells just in case he needs it later in life. I'd probably spill it all or make a bad cut and scar either one or perhaps both of them. At this point I leave Tammy's side (she says it's ok) to go to Alexander, who is undergoing the Apgar and other tests. I keep talking to him as he lies there under the heat lamp being tested, prodded, poked, and eventually cleaned up. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he just looks at me. He looks so helpless, cold, alone, and bewildered. I feel compelled to talk to him, to let him know that everything's going to be ok, with that lump still in my throat. I want to be a strong reassuring presence for him and not let him see me cry. I don't know if he can see me clearly. Maybe he recognizes my voice, less muffled from when I talked to him through his mother's womb. Meanwhile, Tammy has dumped her placenta and is getting sewn up. Apparently her cervix tore (a common occurrence during birth) while pushing out our 9 lb 6 oz boy. Ouch! Talk about adding insult to injury. Thank goodness she got that epidural. I continue to talk to Alex, saying words of encouragement. He's looking at me and I wonder if he's able to make the connection that I'm his father, the other, deeper voice that isn't Mommy's. I continue to have that lump in my throat as I watch him, still under the heat lamp like a forgotten cheeseburger, waiting for the chance to hold him, to offer more human contact beyond the nurse's rubber glove. At last I get to hold him and I'm so proud of him for no other reason but for being my son and having the strength to be alive. Birth may be gross, but it sure is a miracle. Back to my Works page |