Legend has it that second births are quicker, easier and even relatively serene experiences.
This is nonsense.
Our second beautiful daughter (I don't have any ugly ones) was born on Tuesday 20th September 2011 at 6:15pm, weighing 9lb 8oz, placing her first by a single ounce in the well documented League of Birth Weights of My Children. Exciting stats, I'm sure you'll agree. Well, that's just the interesting tip of a riveting iceberg.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
Prologue
On Monday morning my daughter and I accompanied my wife to her fortnightly appointment with the midwife. Initially we were directed to see a substitute, who was reluctant to conduct the cervical sweep we had been promised (on the quite reasonable condition that we had not had the baby by this point) by our regular midwife. I regret to say that I do not fully understand the workings of a cervical sweep, other than that it is intended to stimulate things into action.
This reluctance proved immaterial just as we were preparing ourselves to sigh and wander off, disappointed, when the original midwife reappeared, like a cervical guardian angel. Quick as a flash, she whisked my wife away and provided all the sweeping necessary.
Slightly exceeding the speed limit
On Tuesday I was back at work, struggling as I had for the previous month or so to overcome the persistent distraction offered by the likelihood of my wife having a baby at any moment. Despite the midwife's proactive intervention the previous day I was beginning to resign myself once more to another day of distracted impatience and concern for my wife's discomfort.
So it seemed odd, even to me, how calm I remained when I received the phonecall I had been awaiting for so long from my wife. It was about 1 o'clock, I think, when she made contact to reveal that she was almost certainly in labour and was en route to the hospital with her mum and our daughter. I should forego the long standing plan of driving home to collect her and instead meet her at the hospital. This minor adjustment to the plan was enough to convince me that this was no false alarm.
I maintain that it was my impressive sense of responsibility, rather than blind panic, which made me briefly consider finishing what I was doing before I strolled over to my colleagues to announce my departure and the reason for it. A few excited hugs later, all that remained was the decadent pleasure of interrupting my boss and his boss, who had been deep in what was undoubtedly very important conversation, to announce that I was sorry to interrupt (I wasn't) but my wife was in labour so I would see them in four weeks.
The good wishes of these important people still rang in my ears as I hit the road. The first half of my journey was plagued by guilt resulting from my failure to have phoned my parents before I left (my dad was tasked with delivering my mum to the delivery suite so that she could proudly assume the role of second birth partner). The second half of my journey was plagued by guilt resulting from my having phoned my parents while I was driving. Under the circumstances I dismissed all this remorse on the basis that two wrongs do make a right when your wife is in labour.
By the time I arrived at the hospital the first signs of panic were apparent as I realised that I had no recollection of where I should go next. The second ward I dramatically burst in upon turned out to be the right one, but not quite at the right time. Now, I confess that I may slightly have exceeded the speed limit on my way to the hospital, but I was shocked, and only slightly proud, to discover that I had beaten my wife there. After a few minutes of shamefully stereotypical pacing around the ward's waiting room I looked up to see my wife, daughter and mother-in-law struggling up the corridor towards me. My first, distant glance at my wife's face confirmed that this was most certainly going to be it.
You're doing really well
Not only are second births quicker, easier and even relatively serene experiences, but we had confidently chosen for this one to take place underwater. Our midwife had successfully sold water birthing to us as a zen-like treat; almost as enjoyable as not giving birth at all.
A nurse then employed medical knowledge to confirm what I already knew: that my wife was in labour. This was followed by some minor confusion about where the hospital bag had got to, before Nana departed with our impeccably behaved daughter in tow. Meanwhile my wife was in agony in a wheelchair in the birth pool room and I was failing to do anything useful as the midwife and her very keen student helper struggled to fill and heat the pool faster than my wife's cervix could dilate.
I should at this point clarify that the midwife by which we were now being attended was different to the one with whom we had ben keeping antenatal appointments. This is not really significant, but both ladies were very nice and helpful, and deserve to be considered as distinct entities.
Just as the midwife announced that the waters in the pool were only seconds away from being ready to receive a pregnant lady, the waters in my wife broke, revealing themselves to be full of meconium (baby poo, for the uninitiated). I was unable to fathom the abject disappointment which immediately appeared upon everyone else's face until I was informed that meconium in the waters implies a risk of the baby inhaling the poo and contracting a lung infection. This risk necessitates careful monitoring and swift suction of the baby's lungs after birth, neither of which are possible in a birthing pool. Thus, we made a despondent procession to the next room, with its conventional bed and lack of warm water.
Soon after this, my mother arrived into what must have been a somewhat awkward situation for her. This was at about 3 o'clock, by which time my wife was fully dilated and ready to push. Her fears that a repeat of the torturous six-hour marathon that this stage entailed in the birth of our first daughter were confidently allayed by the midwife, who proclaimed that six minutes would be a more accurate timeframe.
My wife had made it abundantly clear some time ago that I would risk being punched aggressively in the face if I offered her the patronising encouragement that "you're doing really well." But it felt so very inadequate to provide only "that's it my darling"s, "take a deep breath"s and "well done"s that I had fallen on back on the truthful but forbidden phrase by the time these six minutes had become two hours. My wife was now demanding an epidural with the vehemence that can be summoned only by a lady who has been through this before and been denied such relief. Of course there are serious risks and drawbacks with such a course of action, which is why such vehemence was necessary to convince the midwife to seek a doctor's opinion on the matter.
Enter the villain of the piece.
Doctors
I cannot recall the name of the doctor who came into the room and told my wife, in sentences broken up by my her frequent and excruciating contractions, that she just needed to push a bit harder really. Our midwife later expressed her surprise that my wife had not hit the doctor at this point. She settled instead for shouting quite aggressively that it was physically impossible for pushing to be done harder than she had been demonstrating for the previous two hours. These were not the exact words she used. The doctor was obviously scared by this outburst, and performed a swift volte face, suggesting that maybe an epidural would be a good idea.
An unsettling lull followed this, as the midwife and her assistant followed the doctor out of the room, leaving my mother and I to console my wife through her continuing agony. Eventually the midwife returned with a different doctor, who wasted little time in conducting a very thorough examination of the baby's position and establishing that it was this which was of concern, and rendering futile my wife's intense and sustained pain thus far. The baby was facing backwards, which had somehow caused her chin to become jammed on the birth canal. My wife's pushing had indeed been textbook stuff, but would continue to be unsuccessful unless drastic measures were taken.
This new doctor's opinion, then, was that my wife should be immediately rushed to the operating theatre for a faster acting spinal epidural, followed by an attempt to forcibly extract our new daughter with forceps. If this failed to work, then an emergency caesarian would be necessary. This announcement triggered a chilling sense of terror in the room. The anaesthetist was suddenly on hand, as if this new torture had always been inevitable, describing the considerable dangers to which my wife must consent for he and the doctor to subject her to in order to save our baby.
Theatre
I was now more scared than I can ever remember having been. And this was not the usual, self-interested fear of pain or inconvenience, but genuine, altruistic terror over the fundamental wellbeing of those I love. I left my mum in what must have been a state of uninformed bewilderment as I hurriedly changed into the scrubs with which I was provided before following my poor wife into the operating theatre.
In other circumstances I might have marvelled excitedly at the Houseesque surroundings in which the aforementioned anaesthetist struggled for much longer than anyone was comfortable with to insert a needle about a metre long into my wife's spine. We were left in no doubt as to the seriousness of the consequences should my wife move a muscle while this was taking place. Yet time and time again, I saw the anaesthetist shake his head in disappointment at his failure to hit the right spot, as my wife battled heroically through half a dozen contractions with no pain relief and no movement.
After what seemed like a lifetime, he at last achieved his goal and calm descended upon the room. Suddenly my wife was sharing jokes with me as she resumed pushing, but this time with the surreal inability to feel the pain which had accompanied it for so long, and with the doctor using medieval instruments to wrench on our baby's head. This was traumatic in so many ways, but at least my wife's pain had for now abated. And these draconian measures ultimately got the job done.
Within minutes our daughter was born, about five and a half hours after the labour had started. For the hour or so since the drama had intensified, I had been visibly struggling to rein in my emotions. Medical staff who should really have been focussing on my wife kept stopping to express their concern for me. Finally I let my guard down and had a bit of a weep as our new child was placed awkwardly in my anaesthetised wife's arms. It was her turn to feel bewildered as she was confronted by a precious child whose hard earned emergence she had been unable to feel. She felt like she had cheated. I tried to convince her that she had put more than enough into the project.
The delighted relief I was now sharing with my wife gradually gave way to renewed terror, in the manner of a self-indulgent horror film which doesn't know when to call time on its climaxes, as our daughter was whisked away to a far corner of the room where two doctors tried with increasing urgency and panic to get her screaming. As I saw one of these doctors start pumping our baby's chest I started to develop a grim certainty that this would end badly. But just as I was about to start screaming, our daughter did.
I should take this opportunity to offer my sincerest gratitude to the many staff who have helped us throughout the pregnancy and birth. I have eulogised before about the sacrosanct wonders of the NHS. This traumatic experience has been an excellent demonstration of the value of this institution and its staff. It's no exaggeration to say that, in a time or country with fewer or less knowledgeable staff, not to mention the equipment at their disposal, I could by now be a single father of one. I will never find the words to fully express how much I owe to the people - not least our midwife - who took the actions they bravely decided were necessary to make everything ok.
Epilogue
It is now just about Thursday. Our second daughter is over thirty hours old. On Wednesday afternoon she and my wife were allowed to leave the hospital to return home with me. She looks nothing like our first daughter, but is nevertheless beautiful. She has a surprisingly good covering of hair on her head, big blue eyes and a ladylike mouth which is somehow capable of expressing a knowing superiority. The horrific bruising left on her head by the forceps has already begun to subside. Her fingers and toes are as long as they are perfect. She is very good at breastfeeding.
My wife is still in considerable pain. Amidst the climactic conclusion to the birth, I am ashamed to say that I failed to fully appreciate the effect upon her of the frightful forceps. Only tonight has she completely lost the benefit of the morphine with which I understand her epidural was laced. I don't think she will tonight add to the 3 hours' sleep she has managed in the last two days. I am going to work hard tomorrow.
Our older daughter's reaction to her new sister has been an issue about which we have speculated for many months. Upon their first meeting she smiled and exclaimed: "Baby! Baby! It's a baby!" This was as good as we could have hoped for, but it was quickly tempered by the tears and screams as she witnessd her sister being breastfed by her mum. A welcome afternoon nap later though, and she was stroking and kissing the new arrival with her best approximation of a gentle, loving touch.
It's a start.
Also: I look pretty good in scrubs.
