The Birth of Our Child
Mike Berlingen

Many months of anticipation had led into the last weeks of my wife Jennifer’s pregnancy. Anxiousness seemed to fill the air, each of us wondering when the much-practiced-for time would come. The birthing classes had been attended diligently, the breathing had been practiced, and Dana, the Earthy teacher, told us what to expect. The home I knew had been completely overturned in preparation for this new occupant—a room had been repainted, new furniture brought in, and all sorts of things I had little knowledge of appeared, mostly gifts from the baby shower. Names were decided: a boy would be Noah, a girl would be Lillian.

On a winter night with a full moon, I was nudged awake at an hour when dreams give way to the lowest level of consciousness. Jennifer said to me, “I think my water broke.” After the hurried confusion of gathering the things needed at the hospital, we made the short drive to the birthing center. Our suite had an appearance of a hotel room, that is, somewhat calming. Mild tones were employed, the floor was a blonde wood, and it all appeared very benign. However, an unsettling smell hung about the room: a mild hint of urine, and although slight, a sharp, pungent odor like that of acetone (some kind of industrial disinfectant, no doubt). The nurses confirmed her water had broken through some test involving a colored fluid. A sort of belt was attached to Jennifer, then to a graphing machine. It registered every movement of her belly, and in this way contractions were monitored. What followed was a very long day of contractions coming only every twenty minutes or so.

After an exhausting day of waiting, watching humanity’s worst attributes televised, and friends and family coming and going, the nurses decided it was time to help speed the process along. A pitosin drip was administered around 10:00 AM. Not long after this medication was given, the contractions became stronger and more frequent. Jennifer had thought she might not use an epidural, but after a very powerful contraction, her face showed a terror and desperation I had never before seen, and she cried and begged for the numbing procedure. Jennifer’s mother spoke aloud her wish to endure the pain for her.

When ten centimeters of dilation had been reached, it was time to call in the obstetrician. She entered unceremoniously, seemingly pushing aside those whom she felt were in her way. She wore an indescribable grimace, and her clothing gave clues that this wasn’t what she had planned for this evening. A date was being interrupted. Our suite was too crowded in her unspoken opinion. Jennifer’s mother, sister, and best friend were there, as well as I, who at that moment shared the doctor’s opinion.

The once benign-looking room was transformed nearly instantaneously before my eyes. The bed changed shape, and the far end of it dropped down. Things were moved out of the way, a cart brought in, and what remained was a very utilitarian arena for giving birth.

Nurse Kelly, a kind, dark-haired young woman, told Jennifer to push. I tried to help her by counting aloud and coaching a breathing procedure. I felt like a fish out of water, utterly impotent to be any significant help, holding her hand and softly encouraging. I watched the look in my wife’s eyes go from fear to unbearable pain. The epidural wasn’t working. Somehow in the movements on the bed, the carefully placed tiny tube going between her vertebrae had moved, and the effect was lost. I saw a glaze come to her eyes—a sort of temporary senility brought about by a level of pain and exhaustion I have never endured. After many more hard pushes, the baby’s head could be seen, ready to enter the world. With a quick maneuver of a scalpel, the doctor cut the perineum, and with a push and a guttural scream came the baby’s head. But the shoulders seemed to be stuck, and I watched in horror as the doctor pulled on the baby’s head with a level of force that I feared would surely detach head from body. In a time frame comparable to the shutter speed of a camera, out came the rest of the child.

Jennifer’s entire body seemed to sag with relief and exhaustion, her motions rubbery, like that of intense intoxication, her eyes reflecting light differently from some anatomical change occurring from this level of stress. It was time for me to cut the umbilical cord. With scissors in hand I was ready when suddenly the cord hemorrhaged, exploding blood on me from head to toe, and seemingly not hitting any other target in the room. The callous doctor looked at me as if waiting, possibly hoping, for me to pass-out from this grizzly scene. I felt hated by her, her energy speaking to me: “Men are cowards and fools, only useful for procreation.” However, I was able to maintain my composure, continuing on with the ritual of cutting the cord, then in as dignified manner as I could muster, cleaning myself up. Lillian was placed on Jennifer’s now deflated belly for a few minutes, then, she nuzzled her way to Jennifer’s breast. We shared a short cry with our new family member, who uttered her first cries in that room with us.

The doctor cut short the time that Lillian would have spent on her mother’s breast because Jennifer wouldn’t stop bleeding. The afterbirth was delivered, and her uterus continued to bleed bright crimson flows of blood for a few minutes. I was worried sick for Jennifer.

Eventually the bleeding stopped, and the seemingly unattached doctor continued through this process with robotic precision, pressing the uterus from top to bottom, then finally injecting Lidocaine, and sewing up the incision she had created.

Lillian was born at 10:53 PM on December 22, 1999. Her birth weight was 10lb. 3oz., and her length was 21 inches. She is now 6 years old, and remains at the top of the size charts in her age group for height. No amount of preparation could have possibly prepared Jennifer or myself for this experience, and in reciting it, I feel moved to emotion once again.