I wrote the following 10 years ago - recently found it in my files - 10 years on, still love those hugs:
I was
scared. Frightened even.
We had been to all the ante-natal classes the maternity hospital ran leading up to this; I knew about waters breaking, I knew about how long apart contractions would be before birth, I knew about panting shallow and panting deep, I knew about not pushing too soon, I knew about the pain to expect.
But really, I knew nothing.
I didn't
know about how harried the nursing sister would be when she saw yet another couple
walk into the maternity hospital about to give birth. I
didn't know she would not welcome our arrival and express tiredness and
frustration from her long mid-night shift. I did not know how unfeeling the
nurses would be. How cold, impersonal
and sterile those prep rooms would be.
I didn't
know how hollow and echoing the hospital delivery rooms and wards would be. I didn't know I would be scared, frightened. I thought this was supposed to be a happy occasion,
All I wanted was my husband; to hold my hand, to comfort me, to put his arms around me, touch my cheek, assure me he would stay by my side. But they would not let him.
He was directed to a waiting room down the corridor. Out of hearing distance, out of sight. He could not join me until I was wheeled into
the birthing theatre, two hours later; then ordered to stand aside. In that era the innovative move to have husbands accompany
wives during childbirth was still seen as unnecessary and a complete nuisance to maternity staff.
The birth
of my first son was a clinical, painful, miserable and terrifying
experience. How reprehensible those days
were. On reflecting back to that day, I
mourn. I mourn for the lost opportunity
of enjoying the birth of one of the most precious treasures in my life.
Nevertheless,
having him wrap his big arms around me forty years later, to the day, I glowed with
pure joy, treasuring his sharing the day with me. His fortieth birthday.
