Well, in my first blog post I talked about my encounters with berka clad women, tbh, not what I really expected to talk about.
I wanted to start this blog because I had certain thoughts that I had to get out. Sometimes I wanted to write something, but I knew I wasn’t good enough for a newspaper or a magazine and sometimes something came to me and it was just out of time. Like the berka thing, 6 months ago, that would have been hot news, now it’s yesterdays chip paper. Not that it is really, just we dare not talk about it.
Of course it’s not yesterdays chip paper at all, I had the opportunity to eat a fish and chip meal from our local establishment the other day, just been taken over a while ago and to be fair, the food had certainly improved mightily, not that it could go any other way tbh. But, I got the chips in a polystyrene tray, covered in blank paper, not the newspaper we used to get when I was a kid. So let me get this right, today we are more worried about recycling and the planet, right? Yet where we used to have old newspaper as chip covering, we know have a tray which will be on this world when the human race had died out, made out of dead animals, a fuel we know is running out, but that we still consume at an insatable rate for things that aren’t needed. I think it will be a fitting tombstone to us.
Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about today is Fathers being there at the birth.
Because my OH has just given birth, to a human and a boy human at that. OK, we knew it was going to be a boy and had the necessary toys ready in the babies room, so hands up to all the protagonists that say we make a boy what he is, guns and cars ahoy!
I’d read all the details, knew what to do, I’d even been through another birth (with the same woman if you need to know), but it was a C-Section…… why the hell do they call it a C-section? Or they even today leave out the C and just call it a section, why? Does it make it better to call it just a section?
We could go into a big debate and wonder what Caesar would have made of it, but surely he would have just laughed and ordered you into the lion pit. Being the Christian you probably are of course. OK, we know that probably never happened, but lets deal with one thing at a time.
Lets get one thing out of the way, I live in the UK and for a long time my hero was Ronnie Corbett, he did this funny joke where he started out talking about one thing and it progressed into something completely different, well I’m a bit like that, I go where the writing takes me…….. and if you don’t like it, then you don’t have to read it, simples (hmm, another bit of tv trash taking over the English language from an advert, I quite like it tbh, but it is doomed to a short life of trashness, just like the budwiser frogs)
If you are too young to remember Ronnie Corbett, then either trust me that it was funny, or if you do remember it, then trust me, it was funny.
But, being Daddy at the birth…..
I tell you what, it was hard, driving to hospital, she kept complaining that I was going too fast, I was on the edge of the seat already, wondering if we could make the maternity ward before something vaguely humanoid came out of the blubbering mess that was my wife, sort of sat on the seat next to me.
Tough, I tell you what, it was lethal, she stopped me 100 yards from the entrance to the maternity ward, no further she said! To be fair, the local councils idea of a smooth run in to the baby hospital entrance, was a pot holed hell hole of sleeping policemen and well….. just pot holes.
I mean, I’m a tax payer, at least I am when I’m working, but surely, saving money here is a bit silly, I have visions of babies being born outside the Midwife’s ward and bouncers keeping the desperate couples away. No sorry, this little flipper has been bought into the world outside ***********’s county hospitals walls, therefore we are not to blame for any wrongdoing, or mess on the cars carpet etc, etc.
Luckily, just as I am having visions of running and grabbing a wheelchair from the front of house and shoving said wife into the wheeled contraption and running down the very smooth looking path for a while, she decides that we can move again, so off we go to the emergency area in front of the wards.
What I’m going to do, I tell her, is grab a wheelchair, then whisk you off to the delights of the experienced nurses, I’m sure there will be a porter to help you along and I hold her hand with what must be the sincerest glance I’ve ever given her. Well you know, since the day the whole baby thing started.
Er no, not happening, apparently it’s good to keep moving, so while the car sits on the huge yellow crosses that mean it’s curtains to it if anyone in a florescent jacket turns up, we stagger across the asphalt into the wards. The lovely porter sits behind the desk and smiles at me, “are you for the delivery suite he asks”?
“no, it’s 4am on Sunday morning and I’m holding this overweight woman who just wants a bit of attention” I almost blurt out.
Luckily I don’t and we make our way via the lift to the 1st floor.
Dropping my better half into a bed, I stagger out and move the car, I then have to pay two English pounds for the delight of parking it in a deserted carpark, Mmm, do I or don’t I? If I don’t and it gets clamped, I will never hear the last of it, I decide to play the dutiful taxpayer and drop the two golden coins into the machine. That’s two hours worth it says to me, any longer and it’s going to cost you more buddy.
So car taken care of, myself laden down with the detritus of human birthing paraphernalia, I stagger up the stairs into the ward, luckily it seems we are the only lucky people having something going on tonight, which might sound normal to you, but when I had heard of couples being turned away and having to travel for an hour to another maternity unit, because no midwives were available at this very hospital not two weeks ago on the news, it was bloody nirvana.
Going into my wife’s room I was amazed to see her pacing the tiles, then every ten seconds leaning over and groaning. No sweat I said! Getting out my wannabe Daddies flip open pocket booklet, it told me all the useful things I needed to know, how to massage her and what positions I needed to get her into, to make the birth that wonderful thing we all knew it should be. It took one snarl and a look of primeval hate on her face for me to realise that massages and booklets weren’t going to work this time. Backing into a corner, I sat down pretty sharpish and stayed there while the midwife tried to do an examination.
“What I’m going to do” she said ” is check you out, then we’ll get the machines plugged in and I’ll see how far you are gone”
Well, I’ll be honest, Mrs Anywonder isn’t a drama queen, if she’s in pain, she really is. And she really was, jeez, she really was. You know that thing where they tell you to hold her hand, forget it, she was way past that, breathing, not a chance, she was screaming and I sat there.
In between the shouts I tried to hold her hand anyway and failed. Every time she went into a contraction it was agony……for me, what the hell could I do? I’d fight off hordes of trolls and goblins, run into barserking Vikings with nothing but a whistle and a G-string, yet that wasn’t possible, I had to just sit there.
The midwife muttered something about an hours wait for the anesthetist, as they were in theatre, well I wish they would get out asap, because this was going all wrong and I was starting to feel sick.
Ten minutes later and I couldn’t stay in any longer, my manhood was shattered, she didn’t need me, she didn’t want to hold my hand no matter how hard I tried, my daddy massage booklet was creased and torn, everytime she was in pain I was in hell and almost in tears.
So I muttered to the midwife I was stepping out for a minute, noting the disappointed look on her face, yes, here was a quitter, a man who couldn’t face up to the task of what he started. What he started? I could hardly face up to the task of getting outside, I was a complete wreck, I stumbled past the porter and lit myself a shaky fag, then another. After 15 minutes I reckoned I was ready for another go.
Plunging past the porter, I saw a knowing look and found myself outside the room again, before I could go in, a massive howl rent the air and my hand stopped where it was on the door handle. A midwife hurried up and looked at me with amused sympathy, “are you feeling a but queasy then?”, “well you’know, I’ve felt better, she’s in alot of pain”. “Yes well, it’s all totally natural and she’s in the best hands, are you planning on falling over, because we don’t deal with men here you know, ha ha”. “Well yes I know and thanks, I am feeling a little light headed, why is there 5 people in there with her suddenly?”
“Go and be a good boy and sit over there, I’ll let you know what is going on”
So I did, I sat there while several other people came and went, felt awful a couple of times, went outside for another shaky fag or two, heard things I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to hear, had midwives coming to tell me that it was going fine, but the baby had turned around and was coming out way too fast, instead of hours, this was now taking minutes, people rushed in, my remaining confidence rushed out. This is going fine? I was thinking, I hope it doesn’t go bad then.
I found myself praying to someone that her and the baby were going to be alright, maybe praying is a little strong, considering I don’t believe in a God, but there was no point taking chances at this time.
After a millennium or two, I was informed I was a proud father and I was asked if I wanted to go in, they almost held my head to stop me looking at the gory bits, but I wasn’t worried about that, my wife was fine, out of pain and she even knew me again. We also had a tiny bundle of joy in what looked like a heater on wheels.
She tirdly looked at me and beckoned me to come closer, held my hand and looked into my eyes….. “you did great” she said
