The Tales of Doctors Wish-She-Could and Done-Nothin, The Russian and The Saint

PART TWO

So when it came to the birth of my daughter, my princess and the angry little light of my life, we wanted something more. Here is the story of when we ordered a Saint, and got The Russian instead.

The Saint had been recommended, and was a little bit cold and impartial as well, and so from the get go we were unsure about where this was heading. There was a glint of light that came from his dry wit that we liked and so we started to get that familiar confidence about where we were going. At this early stage we had heard stories about The Russian, but that was all. Stories about her being completely unsympathetic, rough and inappropriate. Like telling expectant mothers they won't be able to hack being a mother, being put out that she had to miss her favourite TV show during a delivery, you get the idea. In fact, we were told not to get her, absolutely, no matter what we did. We really should have listened.

When the time came, again it was down to an induction, but this time with the doctor we had ordered. We were looking forward to it, as much as you can look forward to something that contains within it some of the worst pain imaginable. We showed up early, and The Saint came on time, or close to it, in a chirpy mood and his usual funny way of speaking. Badda-bing, badda-boom, the induction was done, he was happy with the result, and confident about where it was going and how long it would take to get there.

'I've just got to pop down to Caloundra and I'll be back a little later in the morning to see how that's all coming along,' it's funny, it sounded like he was talking about a dinner he was slow-roasting. Anyway, off and away he went – he was only half an hour away, not too bad - we were ready to be in for the day anyway, ready for anything really, as I suppose it's good to be. We had a nice room, low lighting, music (the tracks of which I was told later on by my wife to be completely inappropriate, although I stand by my choice of Tripod songs because the mood of them was fitting and it did take her mind off the pain), and a nice, calm and peaceful vibe going on through the place. We were in for the long haul and taking it easy along the way (I probably speak for myself there). Unfortunately, Little Miss Mango had spent quite enough time in there, and wasn't in the mood for wasted hours. In the end, it was quicker than seeing a movie.

It moved along the same as the last time, except in the room was myself, my wife and the midwife, who gave me the same startled look I gave her when Mrs Mango's contractions started at about seven minutes apart. And then jumped to about five. And then three.

'We better get you out of the bath, I think,' she said when they had moved to a couple of minutes apart, in that wonderful way that midwives say anything (honestly, I cannot speak highly enough of them).

At this point, Mrs Mango knew what was happening, she knew our Little Miss was on her way and I mean right now. So they called in The Russian - it was the only option. Now, I can't be sure she was Russian, and I am not showing any prejudice as to her nationality, but as I am trying not to identify her, I think it's probably a good name. Whatever country she originated from, she was soon in the room with us. She acknowledged me and then turned her attentions to my wife.

'Hello – I am The Russian – it's nice to meet you!'

I was taken aback and yet a little interested in what she expected the response to be from somebody  delirious with pain, or why you would ask it from someone in the particular position my wife was in. Actually, come to think of it, considering what she was looking when she said it, I think she might have been talking to my daughter. Alarm bells!

Yet, despite this, what happened next was one of the most amazing experiences of my life and I think, no matter where I get to in this world, or what I see, it will always pale in comparison to these precious moments. It's sort of a thing where you wish you had a video camera, but then again are glad there wasn't, as you can force yourself to hold on to the memory. I'm not quite sure where The Russian was in the room, what she was doing, or really why she was there. I think she was really just there most of the time to say inappropriate things at inconvenient times and encourage Mrs Mango with what sounded like harsh comments or vague threats – perhaps it was just the accent making it sound like that I don't know. I think it would have been a perfect experience if only The Russian had of been a mute, or perhaps hog-tied with a sock in her mouth in the corner. Regardless, the amazing moment came, the moment when Little Miss Mango was born and I was asked by the midwife (I'm actually not even sure where The Russian was at this stage – probably asking the janitor outside how his dead wife was - or why she didn't ask me to take over her job for her, although I'm very glad it happened, however it happened) if I wanted to deliver my own child.

'Absolutely!' And went at like a farmer birthing an infant calf (maybe not, more like an emperor penguin trying to catch a baby seal – you know, it's hard with the flippers and all).

Anyway, I was able to bring into the world, myself, this amazing creature, who would (later,when Mrs Mango went off to run a marathon or something, honestly she's amazing) open her eyes for the first time in this world while I held her, look up at me with great interest, and share an undeniably perfect moment that is so rare in a life. Hers was to be the least complicated birth, and in some ways, the most amazing. Sure, The Russian was a jackass, and didn't really understand how to communicate with human beings either (like when she was still making inappropriate comments whilst putting stitches in as roughly as she could, as rough as a shearer is with a sheep, although I won't go into the details of what she was saying - it still makes me shake my head in disbelief), and while I wish she wasn't there for the birth, it's almost as if she wasn't. And as the midwife obviously trusted me more than her at the most important time (although I can't prove that), if it had been another doctor I may not have been able to do it. So I'm thankful for The Russian turkey poking around the room, making crazy sounds that we tried to ignore, because it actually turned out to be a very great day.

So by the time we got to Little Mango 3, we were old pros at this. We knew what to expect, how long (or short) it would probably take and didn't need the security of a good obstetrician to know we would get through it. Perhaps the previous experiences were necessary to give us this confidence, but then again it would have been great not to go through some of the things that had happened. Regardless, we ordered The Saint again, happy to keep the relationship going with him, and learn to understand his strange humour. See, I think the thing with most obstetricians is that they are all a little odd, obviously it is quite a grounding job, and you would get a bit detached to it all I suppose. Even a little bit sarcastic, as everyone gets in their jobs. Obviously, most people get a bit cynical and sarcastic about the reports they have to fill out, or the incompetence of their boss, and not vaginas, but to each their own. Anyway, we were looking forward in a positive way.

This time, we ordered The Saint, and we got The Saint... and I'm forever glad that we did. It's sort of like we were finally rewarded for the hard work put in already (obviously mostly from my wife) and it turned out for the best in every way.

This time my wife, booked in the next day for our third induction, started getting labour pains in the afternoon. She said they were stomach cramps and they were nothing. I said that she was nine months pregnant, overdue in fact, and stomach pains around this time are usually pretty common, but they rarely mean nothing. So we went to the hospital and hung around for the rest of the night. Alas, nothing happened. Don't know what it was, although I probably have an idea now, but Little Mango 3 wasn't quite ready yet. The Saint came and saw us that night, and said he would be coming in the morning to induce. I don't even think he was supposed to be working, but he did it anyway.

So, we woke in the morning in the knowledge our son would be born that day. In strolled The Saint, happy as Larry, and started the process. He knew very well not to go too far this time. And it all moved along in a fairly similar fashion, although the contractions seemed to speed up and then slow down when they got to about three minutes apart. The midwife told us to get out of the bath because the scorching temperature we had made it was too hot and slowing down the process (obviously we didn't know everything). So it all started moving along fairly quickly, although it seemed a little longer than our Little Miss's birth had. Eventually, when the time came and The Saint returned, quiet and calm, he realised the problem, and it was a big one at that. Little Mango 3 was close, ready to go in fact, but the umbilical cord was around his neck. The speed at which the contractions had moved hadn't let any clue, and I wondered how long it had been like this. Now, usually an obstetrician can manually release the child from the umbilical cord in this condition, but at this stage, because of the path the baby takes out of the womb, the cord was pulled tight, so tight around his little throat that our boy couldn't breath. The Saint couldn't even get a finger underneath it relieve the pressure. Obviously, this was the point where we didn't know what that meant, and were fearing beyond measure that something terrible was going to happen. If The Saint felt the same, he certainly didn't show it. In a tone he would probably use when ordering a coffee, he told the midwife the exact problem and then went about fixing it. He didn't ask my opinion, he didn't get in a round table discussion about it – he knew what had to be done and he did it. He showed me in that moment the reason we were paying him so much money, and restored all faith I had lost in obstetrics. He could have been at home solving a Sudoku for the calmness, yet absolute concentration he showed.

'All right, Mrs Mango. I'm going to have to cut the umbilical cord right now, before he is born. Now, as soon as I have done that, you're going to have to give birth, straight away.'

There was no question, no doubt, only pure, undeniable surety. He knew it would happen that way, and I guess that's why it did. With such amazing care, I watched him take away my baby's lifeline and order my wife to give birth. I didn't think women could give birth on command, but now I know differently. If it's life and death, nothing else matters but what happens in the next few moments. And the next few moments were tense. She did give birth to Little Mango 3 straight away like a champion, without contest or complaint, with happy encouragement from everyone in the room including this brilliant doctor, and cheers of joy when it was done. Our son was completely blue when he finally came out, which scared the hell out of me and almost convinced me that it had all been in vain and we were about to lose him. I don't know how Mrs Mango felt because all she saw was my frightened face and unsure babblings that everything was okay. I've tried before and failed to explain the utter devastation you feel when that moment is upon you - you've just seen that precious child that you have tried to get to know and immediately learnt to love as they are being born, almost taken from you in the very same moment. I takes a person's breath away just thinking back, and I'd really rather not - I'm just perpetually glad that the scales were leaning in our favour that day - I don't know what I would have done were they not. Whatever I thought aside, it didn't seem to worry anyone else – The Saint rushed him over, cleared his airway, gave him oxygen and placed his arm on his chest, watching my son breath life and colour back. I've never been so thankful to another person, or as ready to kiss another man; needless to say, I was overcome. And as our Little Mango 3 came back to us and replaced our fear with the amazing afterglow of new life, we were thankful that this was the doctor we had in the room with us, and that it had all ended on such an amazingly happy note.

So those are our stories, our experiences with these unique physicians, and I'm sure there's a billion more like it. I have come to realise that everyone's journey is different, some sadly to disaster, others to amazing new heights, and most of the time shaped by the people in the room.
Dr Wish-She-Could, off soaking it up on a beach in Honolulu with a cocktail in hand; Dr Done-Nothin telling my wife that her life was irrelevant (also actually happened), The Russian saying something that didn't translate and just came at vulgar. And The Saint, the happy comedian who saved my son's life. Whether they aren't there at all, or whether we wish they weren't, or whether we're exceedingly grateful they were; they shape the time, mark the moment, and imprint themselves upon our lives.
For worse. Or better.