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. . . Coaching The Delivery
Arthur Brodsky; Arthur
Brodsky writes for the Capital
Energy Letter and has retired
temporarily from birth-coaching.
May 28, 1982; Page C5
My wife Liz is lying on a hard bed, in a little hospital room.
The place has all the charm of a converted shower stall. She is
moaning, in this small labor room, with the pain that will
culminate in the birth of our baby girl, Aliya Louise.
I'm the "coach." That's what Lamaze childbirth instructors
call those of us who go through the classes, learn the breathing
techniques and attend the mother through labor. I know, in an
intellectual sense, what Liz is going through. I know there are
contractions, and she is preparing to help force out our baby. I
know all of this, from six 90-minute childbirth classes, some
extra lectures and from a lot of reading.
I can't help but think about the comment I wrote, in jest,
as the last class ended. My objective from the course? Not to
panic.
Indeed, panic is the last thing on my mind. Ignorance isn't
the problem the coach faces as labor progresses.
The problem is frustration; the person you love is in pain
and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. You can try to
make her comfortable. Rubbing a tennis ball in the small of her
back sometimes helps to relieve the pressure. Frequent refills of
ice chips help a little; she isn't allowed to eat during labor.
As the labor goes on and the contractions get worse, you
will find yourself fixated on a small black line, no more than a
couple centimeters wide. It is the mark made by the pen on the
fetal monitor attached to the mother's abdomen. Future coaches
will find, as I did, that when the graph starts to climb, so does
intensity of pain. You can tell your wife what's coming, and it
helps to tell her when the graph is on a downward course, meaning
the latest episode is almost over.
There's no way to teach a father how to be a good coach.
That's part of the problem. In the Lamaze method and others taught
by hospitals and childbirth-education groups, most of the
attention is given to the mother--as it should be.
Breathing exercises and relaxation techniques, designed to
help the mother deal with labor, are introduced and there is
usually some practice in class. Labor physiology and terminology
are explained. You know what drugs may need to be administered,
what they do and what needles are used.
Some classes devote a lot of time to the coach's role, some
very little. Even an otherwise excellent film about childbirth
gives short shrift to the husband's presence, other than to imply
that being there is the noble--if not liberated--thing to do.
In the final analysis, it is up to the coach to make his
own way. As one new father put it, "The class gives you the
'letter' of the experience, it is up to the coach to conjure up
the spirit that makes it work."
Ask any new mother about the coach's role, and she will
probably tell you the most important contribution isn't any of the
breathing techniques, or the rubbing, or the ice chips. It is
simply the coach's presence.
Having said all that, future coaches also should know that
they won't be much help without the technical background. You have
to go to the classes, learn the breathing techniques and practice
enough with the mother so you will be on the same rhythm during
labor.
That practice comes in handy when the mother seems to be
losing it in the midst of a long contraction, and you as coach
have to get her back into the pattern. And you should know the
cadence at the end, during the pushing stage, so she can propel
the little munchkin out into the world.
You are there for her comfort. If she wants ice, you can
ring for the nurse to bring some or get it yourself. A coach may
bring some food for himself, or see what the hospital has
available. But be considerate. One friend's husband had eaten a
liverwurst sandwich just before one difficult part of the labor,
when he was to coach her breathing. She told him to brush his
teeth.
In the end, it comes down to the coach maintaining
emotional control over the situation. You have to know, understand
and to a degree, reflect, your partner's moods through a sometimes
long and trying period.
You have to project confidence when needed, but at the same
time not get carried away as a cheerleader so that you miss what's
going on.
You have to be a drill sergeant, getting her back into the
breathing patterns when the pain gets intense, but at the same
time recognize when the soft approach is needed.
And you have to feel love, particularly at the most
difficult moments, when the mother tells you to shut up, or to go
away.
And if you last, and the child can be delivered normally,
you may find yourself where I did:
In a delivery room, dressed in hospital mask and gown, I
had one hand around Liz's neck and back, the other around one of
her knees. A nurse held the other knee. I was counting the final
exercise, of gulp (for air), and then push. A little head began to
be visible and, with the help of the doctor's forceps, the rest of
our child emerged.
All the hunger, pain and frustration vanished. The
adrenalin that had kept me going for about 48 hours, pumped even
harder. Exhilaration, fulfillment, accomplishment. We had helped
deliver this baby.
How any father can choose to miss that, I will never
understand.
If you are a photographer, by the way, bring your camera.
The pictures may seem clinical and a bit gory at first, but they
are priceless--even cute--as the child is washed off in the
delivery room. Mothers who may have missed seeing the delivery
will have a chance to see it. One other suggestion: If you have a
small tape recorder, slip the strap over your wrist and turn it on
during the delivery.
By that time, the birth is in the doctor's hands, and the
coach's work is over.
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