Chapter 19 - An Irish Birth...

     He matched her almost pound for pound during her pregnancy—even kept a scorecard in his wife’s chart to measure his progress. When she experienced nausea and heartburn, so did he. He was sympathetic to her every sensation.

     “I wish men could be pregnant,” he confided in me one day. “Imagine carrying life inside your body, feeling it move around and stuff. Wow. What I wouldn’t give to experience that. I think a pregnant woman is the most damn, beautiful creature on earth!”

     Michael was Irish, romantic, and deeply in love with his wife. He spoiled her and she loved it—breakfast in bed, evening walks by the river. She told me that he would read to her at night and massage her feet. “This is what I can do— how I can start to be a father—by taking care of my wife who gets to do all the work,” he explained.

     Their prenatal visits were a delight. They would have me laughing till tears poured from my eyes. He learned how to feel for the position of the baby and the highlight was when he could hear the heartbeat. He would listen for a long time, grinning and tapping his fingers on her belly to mark the beat.

     Sometimes other members of the extended family or close friends would pile into the exam room for the visit, all talking over each other, everyone needing to feel and listen to the baby.

     So when she went into labor on Christmas Eve I wasn’t surprised to see ten extra people pour into my clinic where the birth room was located. They arrived, arms full of food and libations, carrying a little decorated Christmas tree and presents. “They’re for the baby.”

     They laid out a spread of snacks and began pouring the wine. Michael had a flask of whiskey, which he sipped from time to time, to “help with my nerves and such,” he said.

     Her labor puttered through the afternoon. Candles were burning and Christmas lights twinkled on the tree. The room was warm and cozy and spirits were high. More food and guests streamed in. It was getting pretty crowded.

     Whereas she was the life of the party in the beginning, I could see her now begin to tuck in, quiet and focused. It wasn’t long before her contractions intensified and she got down to serious work, becoming oblivious to the swarms of people gathered around her.

     Michael was by her side, breathing in sync with her every breath, sweat trickling down his face, hair standing up on end, flask in his back pocket. After every contraction a roar would erupt from the crowd, encouraging her on, carrying her on the wave of their enthusiasm.

     When she started to push Michael was at the foot of the bed because he wanted to “catch” the baby. Just as the head was beginning to appear, she looked aghast at her husband. “MICHAEL, FOR GOD’S SAKE MAN, COMB YOUR HAIR. THE BABY’S COMING,” she suddenly shouted.

    He was incredulous. “How do you have the presence of mind to think about something like that right now!” The room erupted in laughter, and someone whipped out a brush and brought his unruly hair into submission, just before the baby was born.

     The newborn girl was swept up into the arms of her parents, and then embraced by her loving, extended family. The wine continued to flow as the baby’s presents were opened. When all was well I sat back and beamed at this amazing boisterous bunch. The celebration continued unabated.  “Lock up when you leave. Merry Christmas.” I said, as I quietly slipped out the door.