The Day I Became A Father

I heard the toilet flush and wearily opened one eye. I watched the digital clock on my bedside table tick over from 7:49am to 7:50am. My eyes were still adjusting to the light as my wife wandered awkwardly back in to the bedroom. Isabell was 37 weeks pregnant at this point and “enormously beautiful “ (revised from '“beautifully enormous” at editor’s request). Her slender 5 ft 1 in frame had long since been consumed by the most amazing bump that, in some ways, had already become it's own entity courting it's own caresses, conversations and lullabies.

Isabell maneuvered herself around before plonking down on to the bed and that's when it all happened. Like a water balloon hitting a pavement, my wife's waters had broken all over the Egyptian cotton. I leapt in to action screaming 'towels, towels'! Whilst my wife calmly called the midwife to report our news, I bounced from room to room with little direction or objective, desperately trying to feel useful and in control. Our baby was on his way 15 days ahead of schedule. We were about to become parents. I was about to become a father.

Some people say that women become mothers from the moment they find out they are pregnant whilst men must wait until the moment they hold their child to become a father. This felt true for me. For while my wife and I had always been together on a journey that took us through hard times, that my wife so bravely describes here, and then good times - the unexpected pregnancy, the all clear at 20 weeks and the wonderful moments breaking the news to family and friends - there were times in quiet reflection that I'd actually find myself forgetting and then suddenly remembering that I was about to become a parent. How is it possible to forget something like that? I doubt my wife ever forgot. I imagine playing host to a human spinning cartwheels around your belly on a daily basis is an incredibly tangible reminder of impending parenthood. I couldn't wait to meet my little boy and have my very own tangible moment.

After the obligatory round trip to the hospital for an initial check up, we returned home and settled in to count contractions which seemed utterly random and nothing at all like the linear countdowns you see on TV. Whilst my wife lit some candles and slipped serenely in to the bath to practice some self hypnosis, I set about completing my birth plan tasks in priority order. Firstly, and most importantly, curate a Spotify playlist of such majesty as would befit the arrival of a son and heir. Secondly, make some sandwiches - it was likely going to be a long night ahead and I would have to keep my strength up. Thirdly, throw all possible things in to a bag and hope for the best.

Fast forward a few hours and we were on our way back to hospital, my wife's contractions now coming in regular cycles. I have to say that it is a rare thing to feel so utterly helpless. I wanted to soothe the pain and share the burden but all I could do was try my best to control the environment, to keep her mind free of worries, annoyances and concerns. We parked up and made our way through the hospital car park. At one point, my wife suddenly stopped and pressed herself against a British Gas van for support as another contraction surged through her body. I felt for my wife in these moments of unimaginable pain. I felt for my baby who must be wondering what on earth is going on. I felt for the British Gas man sitting in the van trying to eat a sausage roll.

The scene was set - we'd managed to get ourselves a birthing suite which was basically a large private room with private bathroom and a huge hot tub. Yes, this was the room where my son would enter the world, born to the opening bars of "Brothers in Arms" by Dire Straits and then held aloft for the glory of all ala the Lion King. Turns out my son had other ideas. He'd somehow not lined himself up quite right and despite the heroic efforts of my wife, still hadn’t emerged despite fourteen gruelling hours. My wife was exhausted and had no energy left to give. The contractions had started to abate. We moved on to the labour ward for closer monitoring.

I had long since dropped any romantic notions of how this night would turn out and instead just hoped with every fibre of my being that my wife and child would make it through safely. My wife was given an epidural which brought blessed relief for the pain and brought us both in to the eye of this particular storm. My wife asked for a foot rub. It was the least I could do. I took my position at the foot of the bed determined to give her the best foot rub she'd ever had. I was face down and asleep between her feet within 30 seconds. In my defence, it had been a long day.

I woke to the sound of the crash alarm. The midwife was unable to find our baby's heartbeat. I looked at my wife and registered the terror in her eyes. I saw the tremors that started at her lips and rapidly made their way through the rest of her body. I held her hand as people flooded into the room clutching various bits of medical equipment. Time slowed down and it is here that I had something of an epiphany - something that I've been alluding to throughout this blog - that we as men, as a human race would be utterly, completely and hopelessly lost without the infinite strength, courage and capacity for compassion shown by the women in our lives. There were about 20 people in the room shortly after the crash alarm was pressed - nurses, midwives, doctors - all women, most of them deep in to long shifts on the ward, all doing their very best to keep my wife and child safe. In the moment the heartbeat was found, I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of humility and gratitude in the presence of something that seemed to me altogether other-worldly. So thank you so much to those nurses, midwives and doctors. And thank you so much to our grandmothers, mothers, sisters and daughters. And, last but not least, thank you so much to my wife Isabell - you are the strongest person I know and I honestly don't deserve you.

The night ended a few hours later with the aid / pretty brutal intervention of a ventouse. My son was finally coaxed out of his snug abode at 6:24am and placed immediately on to my wife's chest. We'd been at this for almost 24 hours so it may well have been tiredness but I honestly had no idea what I was looking at. Whatever it was - was purple and grey and looked like a freshly caught squid. Surely there was some mistake here? What is this? But then I heard a tiny hiccup. Then a sweet little cry. Then the purple and grey receded to a wonderous pinky hue as our little boy opened his eyes for the first time. I had become a father. And I am in love.