Citius Altius Fortius

As a caveat before I begin, I would like to point out that I cannot speak for men everywhere, or women anywhere.  This is merely my personal perspective on labor and delivery as I saw it transpire for the first time.  Obviously this is neither scientific nor fitting for everyone else’s experience, and probably not for anyone else’s experience.  I wouldn’t attempt to convey what Kelsi went through, or even allude to partly understanding it.  I just wanted to share what it was like for me.

This was my first time in a delivery room of any kind.  As I entered I remembered that the nurse giving the hospital tour a few months before had referred to me as “coach”.  This is how I viewed myself as the i.v. went in and drugs started the contractions.  I wanted to help as much as I could, even if it wasn’t a lot.  I thought watching my wife give birth would be like being Rocky Balboa’s coach, giving encouragement as my champion fighter suffered round after round of brutal punishment.  While in a way that is what happened, at least the punishment part, in the end, even with my stash of psychological distractions, massage techniques, music, games, and videos, I didn’t resemble a coach of any kind.

See, a coach actually knows something about the sport.  When Stallone comes to the corner of the ring his coach yells at him for lowering his right arm, for not moving his feet fast enough.  Ostensibly, these are things the coach learned after a lifetime of boxing experience, and from years of coaching.

After a few hours the back rubbing only annoyed my wife, she didn’t want to hold my hand, and the carefully planned distractions became irritants.  More and more labor inducing drugs were pumped into my beautiful bride and I just watched at her bedside as she gritted her teeth through them.

As a man in the delivery room I felt more like a spectator at the Olympics than a coach.  I waved my countries banner and watched in awe as a victorious swimmer proved the limitless power of the human body.  Through blood and sweat and tears the champion wades her own way through the fathomless depths, pushing herself beyond the comprehension of the watching crowd. 

 Did I do nothing?  Not exactly.  What Olympian could help but swell with emotion when her fellow countrymen wave the flag of her childhood as she steps toward the immaculate pool?  I imagine the hope in the thronging crowd buoys the champion up, the very essence of support is transferred to her heart by the fervor of her bystander’s optimism.

But when she steps on the blocks, and waits for the gun, the crowd cannot help.  The spectator does not intercede, nor can the flag of the homeland carry the day.  They beckon, they call, they pray and they hope, but they do little to win the race.  True victory is only realized by the heart of the swimmer.  The culminating effort of long and painful preparation.

As surprising as was my impotence, the final minutes of delivery turned out to be the most surprising.  I squatted by the bedside, helping to position her back and lifting her leg.  I looked into her eyes, as the pressure built, and the last few pushes came.  Her sweat had soaked through her hospital gown and sheets on the bed.  She was shaking from the pain or the medicine, or something else unknown to me.  

Up till that moment I had, for the most part, seen what I expected in her eyes: suffering, worry, pain, and stellar effort.  But what I saw in her face at the end was different.  It was pride.  Proud of the pain I think.  Proud of motherhood.  Proud to carry the hopes of waiting spectators.  Maybe pride in knowing she was about to win a hard fought victory.  I can’t guess what was actually going through her mind at that moment, but what I saw was pride.  The gritty, scrappy pride that challenged demons and hell to stop her child from coming. I won’t easily forget that sight.  The moment my champion’s face toughened and the righteous fury of womanhood cut a doorway to this world for a child that would never understand her sacrifice.

It’s odd to relate the above story because as I write Kelsi is gently patting Jayson’s back and talking in cartoonish voices, telling him he’s the cutest little person that ever lived (which is true).  “Time to eat, baby,” she coos, “Want to burp again?  Won’t that be fun?”  Jayson answers by scowling then smiling, then frowning, as he practices for future greatness.  “He’s so cute,” she says to nobody in particular. Sometimes Kelsi acts like a girl playing with a new Cabbage Patch.

If I hadn’t seen the steeled champion in her moment of prowess, I likely wouldn’t believe she existed.  Where did the Olympian go? What happened to the hardened eyes and the unbreakable jaw line that defined motherhood with unforgettable power?  Where is the hero that spread her foe’s ashes on the wind?  What happened to epic mom that only shows up in stories and melodramatic blog posts?

My guess is the true champion was there the whole time, and is still there now.  Likely she, as is typical with super-humans, receded behind the mild mannered mommy in the foreground.  The Olympian waits beneath the surface now.  A sentinel of the deep.  Patrolling water far below her boy’s life raft, waiting in the darkness for danger to dare stalk her child, or for misfortune to befall him.  Until then the smiling, cheerful mother will continue feeding her child and watching him grow.  The battle hardened Olympian not exactly present, but not entirely absent.