A Dad's Birth Story

It was the 29th December. Christmas was over with. Our baby was not due until 19th February. We could now prepare, mentally and financially. The nursery still needed decorating. We still had everything to buy - a kind aunty had knitted some cardigans and a shawl, but that was about it. So much to do - the 29th was to be the start of our final run of preparation. The day started early with a trip to the hospital to take my father to a clinic. Return him home and grab a coffee. Off to the DIY place to choose carpet and wallpaper for little one's room. Rush home, grab a sandwich and then off to the surgery for a routine pre-natal check and then home. Except one of us didn't come home that day.

With hindsight, my wife should have rested, but we were keen to get things done. The midwife took Nikki's blood pressure (traditionally low) and found it high. We sat back in the waiting room to see if it would fall again. 20 minutes later, the blood pressure was even higher. We would need to go to the hospital for a few hours observation. Once in the hospital, the few hours became an overnight stay. So there she stayed. It was Nikki's first time in hospital, and therefore not exactly the setting for a relaxing stay to lower blood pressure. Indeed, it remained stubbornly high.

Next morning, Nikki was moved to a side room, and we saw the consultant for the first time. We were expecting to be told to rest a little, go home and get on with it. Instead, the consultant began to talk about keeping Nikki in for as long as possible, hoping to stabilise the pregnancy until at least 37 weeks (we were at 32). This was the first inkling we had that all might not be going according to plan, and it was a shock. There was protein in her urine, and pre-eclampsia was the diagnosis. When steroid injections were mentioned, to mature baby's lungs in case of an emergency early delivery, unease began to set in. Suddenly it looked like she might not be coming home until it was all over. And we had thought we had another nine weeks to go.

Still, I wasn't too concerned - all the clichés about being in the best place and so on. As time wore on, though, it wasn't easy not to be concerned for her after all. She worried far too much about me and about the situation at home. I waited. Visiting twice daily, trying to keep her spirits up. No mean feat, considering how clearly unhappy she was, and how much she hated being stuck there. When at home, I spent a lot of time reading all I could about pre-eclampsia and pregnancy induced hypertension. All the books said that everything would be fine if it was diagnosed early, which this was. So why did I feel so uneasy still?

Admittedly Nikki moaned a lot, much of it about the poor communication and the catalogue of different locums she had seen, each of whom seemed unable to give a straight answer to her many questions. She felt well. The blood pressure was still high, but she was convinced that was due to the stress of being in hospital - her reasoning was that if she came home, the blood pressure would fall again. The hospital weren't buying it. New Year's Eve was a particularly bad day, and Nikki managed to spend 3 hours repeatedly telling me how much she wanted to come home. 3 hours!

That afternoon when I returned, she was in tears. She hadn't felt the baby move for a while, and it had always been so active. She'd also had a dream - a dream in which the had lost the baby and I had had to tell her that baby didn't make it. She also had a blinding headache and blurred vision. Staff had been asking her for days if she had any of those symptoms, which she hadn't. But now she did have, they seemed unconcerned - unlike Nikki, who by now was in a panic. She nearly passed out on a trip to loo, unable to breath in an anxiety attack. That was it - a doctor decided we should prepare for delivery - on New Year's Eve, at about 11pm. It looked like we would have the first baby of 99, everyone joked.

But neither of us felt like joking. This was not the way it should have been. I began to panic inside. All I could think about was losing Nikki. Why I should have become so morose I don't know - but there were tears from both of us, and a lot of emotional talk. Yet suddenly, with 20 minutes to go, Nikki became calm. Everything stabilised. The delivery was off. All was well again, and I was sent home. Our baby was OK, my wife was OK - proceed as normal to week 37. That was the theory at least, but nothing felt OK - we were both exhausted and worried.

Next day, New Year's Day, a routine heart monitor for the baby began to show an abnormal dip. We didn't say much to each other, but both of kept glancing at it out of the corner of our eyes. The midwives too showed concern. We talked about rubbish, but we both kept returning to the monitor. Nikki stayed on the monitor even after I was sent home to sleep (??!). That night, I prayed for the first time in over ten years. I prayed for the baby, but mostly I selfishly prayed for my wife. Make her safe, please. Make baby safe too, but don't let anything happen to Nikki.

Back at the hospital, there was a drama unfolding. The concerned midwife called the Registrar to look at the heartbeat tracing. The Registrar was unimpressed - the print wasn't very clear. She made him listen - audibly you could hear the heartbeat dropping. He remained unimpressed. He wanted to leave it until next morning, and then repeat the trace. The midwife was horrified. 'You can't do that,' she told him, an eye on my distraught wife's face. Once again the sound of the heartbeat dropped. Finally, the Registrar was persuaded - thank you midwife. You saved at least one and possibly two lives that night.

At 2.30 am, I was called to the hospital, just in time to catch my wife walking (yes walking) up to theatre. She was given the epidural she had dreaded (way back when, we had wanted a natural home birth, with no pain relief). With the words 'If you move, I'll paralyse you' ringing in her ears from the less than sympathetic anaesthetist, I was being dressed in a gown and clogs. It was unreal. A member of the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU) support team sat with me as I waited. She was wonderful at calming me, and talked me through what to expect for the baby when it was born.

Finally, we entered the theatre - I had been dreading that point, sure I was going to pass out. I forced myself to focus on my wife's frightened face, willing myself to stay strong for her. Someone brought me a chair, and there I sat, holding her hand, my face inches from hers. 'I love you, it'll be alright', I whispered - and they started.

Soon we heard them say the baby was born. But there was no cry. Why no cry? Suddenly there was a bellow and I was able to breathe again. Caught up in attending to the baby, staff forgot for a few moments to tell us what sex it was - a little girl! Instantly, we named her Emily Dana. Moments later, she was brought to us, swathed in a towel, to say hello. A few brief seconds was all we had before she was whisked away up to the NICU nursery.

I wiped a splash of blood from Nikki's face as they stitched her up. It hurt - a lot - and I felt every wince. Finally, as they prepared to take Nikki back to the ward, a nurse asked if I would like to go outside for some air. Stupidly, I remember asking my wonderful wife 'Can I?' Outside, someone told me what the problem had been. Placental abruption - Nikki had been losing a lot of blood internally, and Emily's oxygen had been slowly being cut off as the placenta detached itself from the wall of her womb. That as well as the pre-eclampsia. It had been close. A little longer, and Emily would have been in danger of brain damage or worse, and my wife could have ended up in a coma. I felt cold and clammy, but the true implications of what might have been didn't really sink in for another 24 hours. I tried to block the thoughts out of my mind, and to concentrate on what lay ahead of us now.

So that was it, I thought. Emily was born. My wife was OK. Emily was OK. 3lbs 12.5oz, 8 weeks premature. It was over - but really, it was all just beginning.

When I returned home after Emily's emergency birth, I felt different. Fatherhood had changed me, but I didn't know how. I just felt different. I wanted to tell the world of our joy, but the world wasn't that interested (I'd felt the same way when my Mum had died 15 years earlier, but in reverse). I told the immediate world, my family and Nikki's, including my brother in Canada at 5am his time.

Meanwhile, Nikki was left in hospital, attempting to rest. My little girl likewise in NICU. The nurses took some photos of her for us, just 20 minutes old. I was so proud. I had seen Emily only briefly. Part of me felt it was wrong to see her without Nikki present. And partly I was preparing myself by remaining detached ---- just in case ----- I couldn't complete the thought.

Soon, I returned to Nikki, unprepared for the state she was in. I had left her in pain but awake and alert. Now I saw her looking terrible. Her first words to me were 'I'm so glad to see you - there's been so much blood!' That was it, I wanted to pass out! I stuck my head out of the window - not enough. I disappeared for a moment to get some fresh air, prepared myself and returned. Nikki had had an awful lot of morphine for the pain and the shock, and couldn't remain lucid for more than a few minutes at a time, and was repeatedly vomiting. I began to feel guilty for my early morning joy. When grandparents arrived to visit that afternoon, she put on a terrific act, hiding the pain and even managing to stay awake.

I took Nikki's father to NICU to see his first grandchild. But - Emily chose that moment to take a turn for the worse. I had already seen her attached to tubes and monitors in her incubator, so I was prepared for that. But suddenly bleepers sounded and nurses surrounded her. In a hive of activity, they moved her with the confidence built from years of dedication and experience. But Emily was having trouble breathing, and they needed to get her onto oxygen urgently.

As the activity subsided, and Emily was in her new home in the intensive care room, I asked how she was doing. 'The next 24 hours are critical,' came the gentle answer. And could I get Mum up to see her urgently. I read so much into that. I don't know how much I was supposed to read into it, but to me it meant that if Emily didn't survive, and Nikki hadn't seen her, our lives would be wrapped in guilt.

I rushed her mum and my dad through the unit, as we had agreed that I would take them up to see little one. I told them nothing. Nothing to worry about. No problems. All is well. Then at last, the nurses from downstairs could bring Nikki up in wheelchair. That first visit was full of mixed emotions. Nikki was unaware of the panic that occurred 30 minutes earlier, and I took the difficult decision not to tell her too much. The way she approached and talked to Emily put me to shame, but made me so proud. Here was a true example of maternal instinct. Nikki wanted to touch Emily, but I was too frightened to do so, she was so tiny, so vulnerable. I cried again, at the sheer joy of seeing Mum and Daughter together for the first - and for all I knew maybe the only - time.

After an hour or so, Nikki was struggling against the drugs again, and having trouble staying awake. She still talked to Emily, but occasionally it was nonsense - 'They lock the doors at the Japanese embassy, you know!' What??

Returning Nikki to her bed, I left in a very different mood. Quiet and insular, I told the grandparents all was OK, and I went to bed, leaving the TV on for company. I prayed again. I put our wedding rings side by side on top of one of Emily's pictures; Nikki had the other by her bed. I had told her that all we could do now was to think positive thoughts and to send out loving vibes. There was nothing else we could do, it was now over to Emily and the NICU team. Reminding myself of this, I eventually drifted off to sleep, and I slept for 14 hours straight through - I don't think I had realised up to that point the emotional and physical toll of the previous 72 hours or so.

When I awoke, I immediately rang then NICU team, heart heavy, bracing myself for bad news. The nurse who answered asked if I was the father, and asked me to hold on for a moment. Why? Mind racing, those few seconds seemed like an eternity. Next I was speaking to a familiar voice, and I remember thinking what a friendly voice. Suddenly I woke up and realised it was Nikki's voice, she was up in the unit with Emily. Wide awake and full of pride and happiness, she was telling me that she had been able to hold Emily for her first cuddle. Still on the phone, I cried tears of pure joy. The critical 24 hours were over, and Emily was going to make it. It was still going to be a long haul before we had her home with us, but at last I could relax, enjoy fatherhood and rejoice in our daughter's life.