Twelve hours had passed before we were finally invited to the labour ward – by my calculations, that was 240 painful contractions later. By this point my wife was completely exhausted and clearly in agony, the gas and air only masking some of the pain. Little did we know it was only half-time and no-one was doing the rounds with a tray of sliced oranges.
Time for an epidural, or so we thought. I was blissfully unaware that an epidural can only be administered by a qualified anaesthetist, none of whom were available at the time of my wife’s by now desperate request.
The longest four hours of my life went by, in which time my wife managed to vomit up the entire contents of her stomach. ‘Distressing’ doesn’t even come close, and as I tried to hold back the tears, the water spray verging on empty, I was all but ready to swap seats with the Swiss ball for a few hours. My emotional wreck was countered by the absolute calm of those around us, not a hint of any midwife crisis.
When it finally arrived, the epidural was heaven in liquid form, or so I’ve been led to believe. No more pain, no more tears, and no sign of baby coming any time soon. The wait continued but this time with an air of relative calm as a few more hours ticked by.
“Time to push” exclaimed the midwife, Earth having gone almost full circle since my sleep was abruptly disturbed. I think my wife was so over labour by this point that the push itself went without too much drama. I remained on the halfway line at all times, not wishing to venture too far into opposition territory (the midwives had this covered anyway). “Would you like to cut the cord?” I politely declined as this was never a plausible option for me. Besides, my hands were full with flannel and spray.
24 hours of blood, sweat and tears, and two became three. Exhausted, weak and overwhelmed with joy, I was ready for that cup of tea.