|
|
 |
|
A Fathers Birth Story: Form and Function |
It is with great apprehension that I approach writing about the birth
of my daughter, Liberty Raine Largen. I fear that ink may corrupt the
sanctified purity of blood and sweat, as words cannot embody such a
transcendental experience. I feel woefully inept, like a graffitti
artist in the Sistine chapel. Nevertheless, I'm compelled to make my
mark.
I must confess that I nurture a silent but profound dislike of
hospitals. I think they are tombs masquerading as sanctuaries. Many
people spend their final hours abandoned in sterile rooms, poked and
prodded by assembly-line clinicians, vivisected and taxonomized by
cannibalistic technicians who plunder the coffin to fatten the coffer.
Yet it's in the antiseptic bowels of these factories that modern-world
children are born. Laboring mothers no longer retreat to the shady womb
of the forest, calling out to the swaying branches and soaring birds as
their babies drop into an earthen cushion of leaves and grass. Our
collective consciousness retains little trace of this primative ritual.
Away in a manger, no cry emits from the mouths of babes. Perhaps there
is too much room at the inn.
My wife Gynni and I had hoped to perform a home birth, but this wasn't
a viable option for us. In the final weeks of pregnancy, her blood
pressure skyrocketed and her ankles swelled to the size of grapefruits,
rendering her barely capable of ambulating. Gynni needed immediate
medical attention, and the physicians chose to admit her early and
induce labor to avoid further complications.
I arrived at the hospital as the blazing sun broke through morning
clouds. I was just in time. Gynni had been admitted the previous
evening, and members of the hospital staff were preparing her for
induction. I'd spent a sleepless night in a lonely bed, haunted by
hopes and fears, wrestling with a terrifying sense of being utterly
powerless. This vague notion would become sharply defined during the
birth experience.
Our nurse Carol had silver hair seized in an excruciatingly tight bun.
Her pale, powdery makeup looked like vernix (the soft cheesy substance
consisting of dead skin cells, gland secretions, and temporary hair
that often adorns the chubby, wrinkled faces of newborn infants). She
emanated a contradictory sense of cynical naivety, as if she'd seen so
much that she could no longer see clearly.
Carol spoke little but I could deduce much from her dreary demeanor.
She appeared to feel no joy at the prospect of bringing new life into
the world. For her, it was just another day on the job, another
obstetric disaster to be contained. Her voice was dull and monotone,
and she looked at my wife as if she was a lab specimen. I felt a vague
tinge of pity for this bitter woman who could have drained the colors
from a rainbow.
Our midwife Laura, on the other hand, smiled frequently and her
physical prescence was comforting. She was genuinely concerned for our
welfare, and she did everything she could to preserve our autonomy
throughout the process. She prioritized people over policies, and she
behaved as if she was honored to be participating in this rite of
passage with us. She seemed to have an intuitive awareness of the
sanctity of her position as the gatekeeper of life. Laura brought a
sense of humanity to the birth experience.
Following the induction of labor, my wife spent four hours pacing,
rocking, heaving, and contracting. She grasped my hand, crushing my
fingers with her intense grip. I massaged her back with almond oil and
refilled her cup of water as Miles Davis played in the cassette player
I'd brought with me.
{mogoogle}
Gynni's labor gradually increased to a crescendo of agony, and she
expressed a desire for drugs. Laura and I tried to distract her with
the allure of a bath. As the warm water ran, my wife waddled toward the
tub. Then she froze in midstep and emitted a prolonged, guttural wail
of torment.
Carol opened the door and poked her head in. "You can't have the baby
here!" She may as well have been standing on a seaside cliff with her
regulation book in hand, shaking a rigid finger at the interminable
ocean waves, shouting impotent protest while the wind blew salt-water
tears into her anesthetized eyes. The whimsical forces of nature do not
bow to petty bureaucratic dictates.
Laura knelt between Gynni's trembling, swollen legs, and did not bother
looking up at the nurse. "This is where we are having it!"
Gynni arched her back, clutching the side of the bathtub, gazing at the
cracked plaster ceiling. She stretched her mouth wide open and released
a primal, terrified scream which reverberated through the hospital. She
screamed louder than she ever did while fighting or making love. My
wife sounded like a wild animal.
The midwife struggled to catch the slippery, squirming mass of flesh as
it emerged into the world, still attached to a swaying, pulsing
umbilical cord.
The floor was spattered with blood, mucous, and runny fecal matter.
Gynni had previously expressed a fear of defecating while giving birth,
but now that it was coming to pass (no pun intended), she was in too
much pain to be embarassed. I felt her warm body fluids squish between
my toes as I stood barefoot, stabilizing her with my arms.
Gynni looked between her legs and cried out in ecstasy and amazement, "There she is!"
Liberty grimaced, her tiny hands and feet flailing in the air.
My sense of joy and awe was abruptly interrupted by Carol, who grabbed
some towels off a shelf and irreverantly tossed them on the soiled
floor. She clutched a pen in her hand and asked, "What time was the
baby born? Was it 11:05 or 11:06am? I have to chart it."
I thought, I don't know, lady. I'm trying to keep my wife from falling
down and breaking her hip or crushing our daughter. Why don't you check
your stop watch instead of bothering me with these irrelevant questions?
The midwife attached two clamps to the umbilical cord. "It was 11:05."
I suspect she was blurting out the first thing that came to her mind in
order to get Carol to be quiet. The midwife handed me a pair of bloody
scissors. "Do you want to do the honor?"
Indeed I did. It took three strokes of the blades to slice through the
tough, fibrous rope that nourished and sustained my daughter, tethering
her to my beloved wife. Lifeblood squirted from the tissue as I cut
through it.
"We've got to get her out of here," Carol said.
My wife tried to lift her feet. "I can't move."
"Yes, you can. You have to," Carol retorted.
"I'm telling you, I can't move!"
Our midwife looked up at me and spoke gently. "Will you grab her ankle and try to help her step out?"
"Certainly." I placed the scissors on the rim of the bathtub, and then
dipped my hand in the water, rinsing blood from my fingers. I took a
firm hold of Gynni's leg and lifted up. It was all she needed to start
the process. I supported her arm as she maneuvered back to bed,
exhausted and elated.
While nurse technicians weighed and measured our daughter, Laura
crouched between my wife's legs, weilding needle and thread to stitch
her torn flesh.
Without any warning, Carol began to jab her fingers against Gynni's abdomen.
Gynni cried out. "What are you doing?"
"We have to massage the uterus."
"Do you think you could wait until Laura is done sewing on me?"
Carol recoiled, frowning.
I asked, "Is there any way we can keep the placenta?"
Carol looked at me as if I were preparing to perform a human sacrifice. "Keep the placenta?"
"You know? Instead of you throwing it out or incinerating it, you could give it to us."
"Well you can't keep it here! Our policy considers it a biohazard, and
we can't let you take it from room to room. You've got to get it out of
here today, and you better keep it cold or it might start to smell!"
I confess to feeling a cruel sense of delight in Carol's revulsion. I
choked back laughter and asked, "Is this an unusual request?"
Carol sneered. "Most parents don't want anything to do with that stuff!"
I thought, This woman needs some color in her cheeks.
I felt the sudden urge to grab the slimy umbilical cord like a lasso,
swinging the bloody afterbirth in the air until it smacked against her
smug face with a sickening sshhplaaat!
She must have detected my deliciously wicked thoughts, because she
raised her hands up as if defending herself from a forthcoming blow. "I
don't have a problem with you taking the placenta, you understand, but
I've never heard of it before. What are you going to do with it?"
I patiently explained that in certain cultures the placenta is not
discarded like garbage, but revered as a vessel of vitality. The
afterbirth isn't viewed with disgust, for it nurtured the fragile life
of the fetus, pumping blood even during the first moments following
birth. Many people in these cultures choose to bury the fetus in the
earth, often planting a tree at the site. The placenta then continues
to nourish the earth. This ceremony is performed in honor of the cycles
of nature.
Carol shook her head in bewilderment and headed straight for the door.
Laura finished the stitches and then congratulated us. "I'd never
delivered a baby with the mother standing up, but I always wanted to."
Finally the hospital staff filed out of the room, leaving Gynni and I
to cradle our baby in the warmth of our bodies. While my wife smiled
adoringly, I reflected on the messy miracle of creation. The evident
contradictions blended in harmonious distinction. Liberty was born in a
fortified web of bureacracy. Joy is the incubated fruit of suffering.
The morgue is just downstairs from the nursery. Birth is an experience
which demonstrates that life is not merely function and utility, but
form and beauty.
My wife and I felt a relieved sense of accomplishment. As we breathed
together in quiet meditation, our daughter opened her tender mouth
eagerly to accept my wife's swollen breast, and the sound of sucking
mingled with the hum of florescent lights.
---
Christopher is an internationally published writer, and his work has
appeared in The Village Voice, Whole Life Times, The Nashville Scene,
and High Times, among many others. His book, Prescription Pot:
One Man's Mission to Legalize Medical Marijuana is due for national
distribution this summer through Penguin/Putnam.
Christopher has two children, a 5 year old son and a 19 month old daughter.
|
|
 |
 |
|
|
|
LATEST ARTICLES ON FATHERVILLE |
|
|
|
MOST RECENT FORUM POSTINGS |
|
|
|
MOST READ ARTICLES ON FATHERVILLE |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
