Starting out, I have to admit I am a basket case when someone is badly injured or wounded and the blood is flowing. In particular, if it’s someone I know, or, worse yet, close to me, I’m on the verge of fainting. I am completely in awe of doctors and nurses who are involved in such matters on a daily basis and sometimes for hours on end. Just writing about the prospect gets me dizzy.
It follows, therefore, that for the births in Canada of my children, Luana and Tony, from my first wife, Dorothy many years ago, I let the doctor know very early that I would definitely not be present at the delivery. I would be there in the waiting-room, but any attempt to persuade me to enter the delivery room would be a waste of time.
I was positive that at the first sign of pain or bleeding I would pass out. It was a certainty. I received a lot of reassurance, of course, and understanding smiles and pats on the shoulder, but nothing would get me to change my mind. I was embarrassed, yes, but not nearly as embarrassed as I would have felt keeling over before a group of professional people doing their work.
With my second wife, Angela, in the Cayman Islands, I took the same tack; no delivery room for me as the birth of our first child, Annika, loomed. I let the nurses and the doctors know of my choice, but as the time drew near, with the birth a day late, I was a nervous wreck. I went into the delivery area for a last-minute exchange with Angela, and then I stood at the back of the room waiting for the “leave now” signal from the nurse in charge. Things began to get very busy, however – Annika was clearly in a hurry – and before I knew what was happening, a nurse slid a chair my way and wordlessly went back to her duties. The truth is I was waiting for the signal to leave, and when none came I just sat there completely caught up now in what was happening before me. I went from feeling faint to transfixed in seconds; all sensations of nausea or fear were gone.
The next 10 minutes or so turned into the most exhilarating experience of my life. Part of it, of course, was that it involved the woman of my dreams, but the overwhelming feeling was a kind of tingling wonderment at being there seeing the beginning of a life, with all the possibilities that flow from that, taking place with a mother delivering a child. In retrospect, I was struck by the silence. I had expected reactions to pain or difficulty, but the only sound in the room was the quiet voices of the nurses and doctors managing the delivery. As the baby’s head appeared, a cap of black hair, I felt a sort of numbness come over me at this spectacle of the wheel of life beginning to turn for this yet unnamed person. It is an experience one cannot properly describe – there are spiritual and psychological forces at play in that hospital room that can only be experienced; they cannot be adequately relayed. I had a clear sense of floating.
Oddly enough no tears came out of me; just a complete wonderment at what I had just witnessed, and a welling up of feeling for my wife and our new child. It’s a truly magical experience, and one that I recommend highly to prospective fathers. Indeed, when Angela was delivering our son Bryan, nobody had to coax me; I was one of the first ones ensconced in the delivery room. If, like me, you’re squeamish, ignore the early tremors; they will disappear like the wind as the life process begins to unfold before you.
As I write this, my Canadian son Tony and his wife Sophe are expecting a son (my first grand-son) in Ottawa this weekend. I’ve been careful to avoid giving him “new father” advice, but two days ago I took the plunge and encouraged him strongly to be sure to be there in the room when his son is born, and I was happy to hear that he had already decided that on his own.
Sometime in the next two or three days, he’s going to have one of the singular episodes of his life. For any prospective father reading this, I urge you to do the same; it will be an experience you will always treasure. Don’t let it pass you by.
