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.
