One Dad's Delivery Room Discourse
by John Boyd
I think the amazing thing about delivery rooms is their unique status in the medical complex. Physically, there’s nothing entirely distinctive about the room, except, perhaps, the stirrups. But what is positively singular to those 12 square feet is that couples willingly choose, months in advance, to go in there and have a huge growth removed from the women’s bodies … intentionally. And after that, they name it.
I’ve never been in a tumor “delivery” room. But I am sure that no one who has a tumor removed (a) wants to be awake for it, (b) has a relative filming it or (c) names it after their father. But I digress.
I haven’t seen it all, but I have been present for the first breath of three arrivals, so I can comfortably attest that I have seen enough. Enough to now say unequivocally that my favorite doctor on earth is not the OB, but the anesthesiologist, and enough to tell you, when a nurse asks a dad if he’s alright, then insists that he sit down while she prepares oxygen for him—he should listen.
From a practical point of view, men are not really needed in the delivery room. Nurses are better coaches, doctors are better at cutting cords, and a good pillow is a better comfort.
But a man has the opportunity to watch his wife perform the most supernatural, natural act that God created. Since birthing isn’t exactly rated PG, I’ll grant you that dads get to see things they wouldn’t choose to see. But there is no other moment when the fragility of a man’s psyche is more pronounced, and yet his overflowing love more powerful, than when he sees his baby’s face for the first time.
It’s also freaking crazy, because there’s this head sticking out of … well, you know. The moment, although confusing to the so-called hunter, is more satisfying than his shenanigans with the so-called gatherer that got them into this delivery room in the first place.
Guys are going to handle childbirth differently, just as women will. While one woman screams, “Ring of Fire, Ring of Fire!” at the top of her lungs, another may quietly chew her teeth into powder. I’ve heard of men fainting, men barfing, men telling inappropriate jokes, men filming. There really is no telling how it will go, either.
With my first, I was Mr. Cool-Daddy, chatting with the nurses and practicing breathing techniques with my wife. The second time around I was Patient #2, weak and nauseated. I also apparently forgot how to count to 10 by ones right around nine centimeters.
Being there, however, is non-negotiable. In some cases the deliverer doesn’t want the man in there—fair enough. But I know a guy who refused to go into the delivery room, and when he tells folks about it, he takes a bragging tone. I just want to box his ears. I heard his wife once talk about it as well; she was teary. And again, I just wanted to box his ears. Delivery is just one experience, no matter how weak your stomach or how obtuse your personality, you should not miss for the world.
My wife loved having me there. I loved being there. It’s not about what I brought to the table. It’s all about us telling the story together later. It’s all about looking at my girls and knowing that I saw them first. It’s about turning with tears in my eyes to tell my wife, “We’ve got a healthy baby girl.”
Delivery isn’t just about a new baby being born. A new mom is born, and a new dad is born as well. Perhaps a new sister or brother is born, too. The family is reborn. And Dad is going to be there, because that is where his new life begins.
John Boyd and his family live in
Columbus. He and his wife Jennifer do not
plan to go into a delivery room again for a
long, long time.
