Since the title of the topic for today is "Birth Experiences", that is, plural, I must assume that, as I have not been "born again" nor have I any memory of my own birth--the very thought sends cold waves of terror up-and-down my spine--I am confined to writing about those births which I have personally witnessed, of which there are but two.
The more memorable of those I have described here back on August 26th. For the benefit of those who may have been absent that day, I will reprise it, edited for brevity, now:
This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly "normal", however. Yes, we had taken the "natural childbirth" and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for a baby that resists all efforts to force it into the bright light of a delivery room. The obstetrician decided to use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women's Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.
The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby's head, a nurse was lying across Jan's abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter's neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5'8" and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin' mad, and gorgeous to both her mother and me.
On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type--they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said "yes", even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.
As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby's first bowel movement. True, it's sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an "outlet" for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.
Beyond any real-life experiences concerning birth, I confess that I have always thought there was something sexy about a pregnant woman. The idea of a incipient new and complete human being living, growing and kicking inside my belly gives rise to a state of being that I have carelessly branded as "fetus envy". Many of you will remember the 1994 Arnold Swarzenegger movie, Junior, in which the star portrays a scientist looking for a way to prevent women from rejecting the fetus they are carrying. When their funding is cut, he resorts to offering his own body as the "test tube" and is somehow caused to become the incubator for the "lucky" child. Seeing this movie was the one and only time I've ever looked at The Terminator and wished I could be more like him. Short of that, I guess I'll have to be content with the occasional spells of nausea that hit me from time-to-time.
© 27 January 2014
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