If I Had It To Do Over

It sounded like a good idea at the time, but . . .

If I had it to do over again I wouldn't ask my husband to be in the delivery room with me when my daughter was born. I don't know what I was thinking. I knew he was squeamish when it came to blood, and I knew he would feel completely out of his element. But, there are shiny medical instruments and other gadgets he could play with, in the room, so, I thought he would be fine.

Boy, was I wrong!

The day went something like this:

Mother Teresa came to our county on June 17, 1995. In fact, she went to the small town where my in-laws live. And, being the good Catholics that they are, they all went to the church to see her.

I went into labor bright and early that morning. I remember waking my husband around six o'clock and telling him I was having contractions. He asked me how far apart they were. When I said three minutes, he said, "Let me know when they are a minute apart." With that, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

You can imagine how well that went over.

He got his butt out of bed, called the doctor, and then set about calling the relatives. At first we couldn't understand why he couldn't reach anyone so early in the morning. Then we remembered Mother Teresa. We headed to the hospital and were shown to one of the "birthing rooms".

A television was in the room and my husband was drawn to it like a bee to a flower. Almost every channel had coverage of Mother Teresa. Traditional church music filled the room. Meanwhile, I was in extreme pain and began whining for my epidural. The anesthesiologist came into the room to administer it and said, "Hearing that church music is kind of creepy." I felt the same way. Since it was Saturday morning, my choice would have been Bugs Bunny making a wisecrack on the morning cartoons.

The church music made me feel like I was in a bad remake of 'Rosemary's Baby'.

My labor went fast. When my daughter was born an hour later, the doctor told my husband to cut the cord. My husband is a squeamish person when it comes to blood. He dreaded this moment. "I think I'm gonna pass-out". The nurses and doctor had to force him to do it. He turned his head, squeezed the forceps, and finally the cord was cut. My daughter was carried to one of those warming tables where she was weighed and cleaned-up. She cried the way newborns do. My husband walked over to her and said, "What's all this crying about?" and she instantly stopped. She recognized his voice. This is a cherished memory.

However, he walked over to where I was and stood behind the doctor to see what he was doing. I watched him closely. He pointed at the area he was working and made a face. I still had my feet in the stirrups, so I had no idea what he saw. I mouthed the word "what?" to him. "Lots of blood" he mouthed back. Then went back to where my daughter was.

Being afraid of the whole delivery room experience, I insisted that my husband be by my side throughout the whole process. Looking back, this was a bad choice on my part. He wasn't crazy about the idea to begin with, and the thought of seeing blood, and cutting the cord caused him to break-out in a cold sweat. I should have gone into the room by myself. After all, once I got my epidural, I was fine and didn't need a coach or moral support. In fact the nurses were wonderful and I didn't feel as scared as I thought I would.

The organ music, having to force him to cut the cord, and the faces he made behind the doctor's back, are things I could have done without. I think my husband would agree with me on this point. He would have been just as happy to sit in the waiting room and be called in when everything was over and done.

. . . like our fathers did when we were born.