BLOOD. GUTS. SCREAMS.
Is this the literary scene of a graphic Steven King novel? Think again. These are the words used to describe the events that unfold behind the greyish steel door of a delivery room. What on earth seems appealing about being a spectator to this madness. From Jeanette, I have always been given the idea that I’m mostly in the way. Why would I want to be the 6ft2” broad shouldered useless body blocking surgeons armed with clamps held by bloodied gloves?
My dad used to use the saying “in for a penny, in for a pound’ – if I’m going in on this pregnancy its going to be 100% of me. I vowed to not miss one doctor’s appointment, check up or jordmor (directly translated to Earthmother or more commonly known as midwife) meeting. Does the birth itself count? Unfortunately, it seems like it. I imagine myself dressed up like a neeky 7th grader in chemistry class. White lab coat, talc covered gloves and scratched-to-fuck science goggles to protect my eyes from the flying blood splatters and placenta. But it turns out, thanks to google, that it’s a lot more humane than that. The task asks for a lot of counting-out-loud and synchronised breathing techniques, as well as the vice gripped hand holding. I can do that. Crowning, I cannot. Sounds regal doesn’t it. But read the first three words again…
Crowning: kraʊn (of a baby’s head during labour) fully appear in the vaginal opening prior to emerging.
At this point in the labour, the doctor delivering the baby asks if the father would like to have a look…”Nah you’re alright mate, I’ll take your word for it” will be the swift reply. Once the blood-soaked nurse hands over our mucus-covered little girl the day will be just a horror movie scene memory.
I’m planning on completely winging what I do on the day, but all I know is I’ll be with her every step of the way.