When our first child was born, my dad was also in hospital. I ran
between wards, maternity and cardiac, third floor and fifth. Now,
we’re heading back to hospital for the birth of our second child. But
there’s one difference. The last time I was there, it was to see the
body of my dead father.
My wife is booked in for an induction. She’s past 40 weeks pregnant
and there’s still no sign of the baby. They let her go longer last time,
but not this time. She’s had gestational diabetes, which is known to
make the placenta deteriorate early. The diabetes forced her to go on
insulin, and otherwise curtail her sweet tooth. The baby grew from
the size of a poppy seed to a sweet pea, then a strawberry, mango,
coconut, pineapple, and watermelon. So, we pack our bags and head
for the hospital. My wife has her birth plan, pregnancy books, electrical
TENS machine, relaxation CDs, wheat-based heat packs. I have a pair
of boardshorts, which I toss into the car at the last minute.
It’s so much more civilised this time; like going for an appointment.
When our first baby was born, labour started in the middle of the
night, and lasted 18 hours, including two of pushing. But he was
born naturally with only an epidural for pain relief. The midwives tell
us the second will be quicker.
As with our first, we don’t know the gender. This, apparently, is
unusual in the modern day. Most people find out, and almost
everyone finds out the second time around. Not us, we’re old school.
But we’d struggled with boys’ names. At the 20-week ultrasound,
the sonographer asked if we wanted to know. We did, we said, but
we also didn’t. We still wanted the surprise. So, in case things
got desperate with name planning, we asked him to write it on a
piece of paper and stick it in an envelope. Somehow, the envelope
remained sealed. We’d resisted the temptation.
I feel anxious as we arrive at the hospital, but not for the same
reasons as my wife. The last time I was here, 11 months earlier,
it was after a phone call to say my dad had died. He was 86 and had
been sick for a while, losing an uncomfortable amount of weight
and gradually retreating from the world, one routine at a time. He
was taken to hospital in an ambulance one night, suffering chest
pains and difficulty breathing, and never recovered. He got an
infection, fell and broke his hip, and eventually died of congestive
heart failure. My mum kept a vigil by his bedside for six weeks, but
we still missed the moment he died. Mum was inconsolable as we
saw his body, cold and pale in the orthopaedic ward on the fifth
floor. She had lost her husband of 59 years.
My wife had given me the option of having our second baby in
another hospital. A fresh start, she said. I thanked her for thinking
of me, but said no. This was what she wanted. It was where our first
was born; the setup was familiar; the midwives. I would fight my
emotions and somehow overcome my negative association. After all,
hospitals are the bookends of life, where so many are born and die.
Come mid-morning, the midwife artificially breaks the waters.
We’re told to go for a walk, to climb stairs, to have a strong coffee- perhaps a double shot. Anything to get things moving. Carefully
holding my spherical wife’s hand, we do it all. We walk between
buildings; up and down stairs; to the car park; the café. I see the
place where I ordered Dad his last cappuccino; the gift shop where
I bought him a box of chocolates that went unopened. I ended up
giving them to the nursing staff in thanks. I avoid the fifth floor
altogether. I’m not ready yet.
Meanwhile, there’s nothing. Returning to our room, my wife is
put on a drip of oxytocin and told to do circles on an exercise ball.
two years after he first became a dad,
peter papathanasiou became a dad again.
except this time, his own dad was missing.
healing death
with birth
experience