New Arrivals
A quick note before I start: this is my version of events; my wife’s experiences are her own. We agree on a lot of things, but my aim is not to tell her story for her.
As my brother finished up his call to congratulate my wife and I on the birth of our daughter, he signed off with a “Most births are weird, hers was just weirder than most”. He wasn’t wrong. Never in our wildest dreams could we have imagined that we would be going through this process during a global pandemic. The situation demanded social distancing that has prevented me visiting my wife and daughter and could very well have prevented me attending the birth of my child. As we were frequently reminded by various doctors and nurses throughout Tuesday, we were lucky, it could easily have been very different. On the other side of the city, partners had been prevented from attending the birth of their children.
My wife entered hospital over the weekend, I could go with her to the nurses ‘station and then I was politely told to leave. We were already resigned to this; we knew in advance I wouldn’t be allowed on the ward. My role, as I assume the role of any partner in my situation, was to support, to remain outwardly calm even when you don’t feel it. Oddly, I did feel quite calm. I knew enough about what was happening, the information coming out of regional and national government had been clear. Germany may have been slow in some areas to react to the threat of COVID-19, but once again we had been lucky. We live in Bavaria, a state that had recognised the threat of the virus early and had quickly put in place restrictions and pushed for self-isolation. Not every German state had or has similar regulations to Bavaria. Even in a crisis, Germany is not homogeneous.
Every birth is different and for my wife and I, there would be complications. COVID-19 is one thing, but my daughter had apparently taken up squatters’ rights and had no intention of moving. So, I waited, there was little else I could do. The weekend came and went, and I found myself on Monday working from home, as I had been for most of the preceding week and a half. One by one the offices I usually visited in person had restricted visitor access, even before the state and national governments had announced anything. Many employees returning from ski holidays or sojourns to Italy over the Carnival holidays were carrying COVID-19 and it was no surprise when I was asked to do home office. Most of the businesses here had more than enough data to assess the risk, given how close we are to Italy.
Work was a useful distraction. I’ve always admired the German ability to compartmentalise work and private life, I was taking a leaf out of their book. For once, instead of cursing the brittle nature of German IT infrastructure, I was focusing on problems and offering support to colleagues and customers alike. I already work virtually with global teams, and this experience allowed me to be helpful, the feeling of being useful is a wonderful panacea. When I wasn’t working, I snatched small moments of contact with my wife. Up until the birth, I was still allowed to bring her things she needed, meeting her at the entrance of the hospital. Sometimes my inherent disorganisation has its advantages and for once my wife wasn’t bemoaning my porous memory.
With work finished, I now had to wait. I’ve had jobs in the past that required me to be “on-call” and so I fell into old routines of pacing the floor and occasionally flicking through social media. It’s hard to focus when there is something looming overhead and what could loom larger than the birth of your child? As the night progressed, so did my sense of foreboding. I was genuinely scared of what would happen next.
Then, at 11.00 pm I got the call. It was beginning. It might seem particularly German, but we had prepared for this moment months before. I had a checklist, which of course included bread, and I checked off the items next to my wife’s impossibly neat handwriting. I drove the short distance to the hospital and before I knew it, I was being handed a face mask and being ushered into a room. What I found was exactly what I expected. I will spare the details, suffice to say that every television show and movie that involved childbirth has essentially prepared me for what to expect. The only difference is that on television, it all happens very quickly. We would be in this room for the next 12 hours.
Those hours would be, to quote my brother “weird”. The oddest thing was how mundane and yet dramatic it all was. The contrast between bland hospital room, decorated with what I would generously call art, and the slow, steady intensification of the birthing process. At every step, any fears I might be harbouring evaporated anytime we encountered a nurse or doctor. The midwife, overflowing with optimism, emphatically declaring “Prima” at every small piece of progress. The doctor, who’s serious and direct language and general demeanour of capability contrasted with the unwavering friendliness of his facial expressions. The nurses who seemed to appear at exactly the right moment, with exactly the right equipment. It seems ridiculous to say, but it really was like clockwork.
After waiting for hours, the moment was over in what felt like seconds. Before I knew what was happening, my daughter was being handed to me and I was being guided out of the room. From the noise and the incessant communication between doctor and nurses, to a quiet place where I might have been for an hour or maybe only ten minutes, I really have no idea. All I could see was the tiny wrinkled face and the little hands. Soon enough, my wife was wheeled in and finally, after months of waiting, we were all together.
