Therapy?

I was born in 26th March 1982 via spontaneous vertex delivery at 9:30pm in Hospital Fatimah, Ipoh. My birth weight was 2.8kg and I cried immediately after birth. I was the second of two children, and at that moment, my mother could not be prouder.

But I often wonder what happened in the few hours before.

I wonder what brought my mother to the hospital in the first place. Was it because she had unbearable contraction pains, did her water break, or did a routine antenatal checkup show that I was ready to come out?

I wonder if dad drove her to hospital, and who babysat my elder sister at home, still a year plus and probably learning her first steps.

I wonder if dad, a young GP at the time, recited the step-by-step management of a normal labour in his head, and any anticipatory measures that might follow should something arise.

I wonder if he was sweating buckets, and more concerned at the impending tribulations of fatherhood, yet again, this time caring for a son.

I wonder if dad and mom knew I was a boy.

I wonder what happened in the screening room. Did I give enough time for my mother to prepare, physically, mentally and most of all emotionally, or was I in a hurry to come out?

I wonder who wheeled her into the labour room. Was it a kindly staff nurse who saw enough babies delivered to tell which mother would have an easy labour; or was it a student nurse just learning the ropes of the workings of the delivery suite?

I wonder if the student nurses timed her contractions properly (3 in 10, 4 in 10), monitored my heart rate (110-160) and my mother’s vital signs diligently. I wonder if they knew they were talking to a fully-trained nurse as well.

I wonder if the staff nurse came by now and again to reassure my mother, to talk to her like an old colleague, a friend, and made her feel at ease in the unfamiliar labour room. After all, my sister was born in Alor Setar.

I wonder if there were any eager medical students or housemen on call that night, taking a good history from mom, quizzing her about contraceptives and family planning, but ultimately hoping to prove themselves worthy of conducting a delivery on their own.

I wonder if I was too hard on my mom. I wonder if she clung on to the side of the bed in pain, everytime her contractions came, stronger and stronger.

I wonder if I starved my mother too long in the labour room, as she was not allowed to eat or drink while inside the labour room, with only the drip-drip-drip of the intravenous fluids nourishing her while her lips became dryer and dryer.

I wonder if my mother was crying, thinking of the hardship that would inevitably arrive having to juggle a nursing career and motherhood all at once. I hope they were tears of joy instead.

I wonder if my mother sang me a song, while she waited.

And when the time came…

I wonder how my mother knew "this was it", that I was going to come out and that was that.

I wonder if she alerted the staff nurses, student nurses and housemen in time, and whether they rushed to her aid in that instant.

I wonder if dad was allowed into the labour room, cradling my mother’s head, cheering her on while she pushed for dear life. For mine.

I wonder if all the people around mom told her how to push correctly, that she could not scream no matter what, that she could hold her own legs for leverage, that she should bear down as the contractions came for full effect.

I wonder if my mom bit hard onto the rolled-up blanket, to suppress her cries and to shoulder the pain. I wonder if she was angry at me for making this so hard for her.

I wonder if she ever thought of giving up, because she was breathless, inhaling and exhaling deeper than ever before, and that all the pain would go away if she settled for a Caesarian. I wonder if the staff nurse cautioned her otherwise.

I wonder if my mother lost too much blood in trying to get me out. I wonder if she was cold, dad holding her in his arms for emotional support and warmth. I wonder if she was too tired or hungry or thirsty.

I wonder if, with one final push, I came out easily.

I was born in 26th March 1982 via spontaneous vertex delivery at 9:30pm in Hospital Fatimah, Ipoh. My birth weight was 2.8kg and I cried immediately after birth. I was a happy, healthy boy, and the newest addition to the family.

I wonder what went through my mom’s mind, as the nurses hurried to clean me up as best they could, clamped and cut the cord, and made sure I was breathing and crying well. I wonder what went on her mind as she was about to see her newborn son for the first time.

I wonder if, as she held me in her arms and called to me for the first time, she thought all her effort in the 9 months was worth it.

I can only wonder, and sadly, I will never know the answers. I wish I did.

25 years later, I am in the shoes of the eager medical student, roaming the delivery rooms deep at night, asking a mom-to-be what an emotional rollercoaster ride it must have been for the sake of her unborn child. An hour later, I helped welcome her son into this brave, new world, and the face of the new mother told the whole story. Unmistakable, insurmountable joy. Of course it was worth it.

This post is dedicated to mothers everywhere, not just mine, whose children know not the blood, the sweat, and the tears involved while delivering a newborn.

I love you mom, and I miss you always.