A dad's delivery-room anxieties

Tom Loftus Columnist • E-mail

Looking back I can't say that my wife, Emily, and I were expecting a scene from a Doris Day movie when we toured the birthing ward of our hospital two weeks before our due date. But we certainly weren't expecting "Full Metal Jacket" either.

On that day in late February, St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York City was Baby Factory U.S.A.  

Again and again double doors flew open to reveal a new family. The scene was always the same — an exhausted mama, bundled baby, and lagging far behind, the bleary-eyed papa. They passed with their thousand-yard stares with not a glance at our touring group of fresh-faced parents-to-be. 

This didn't look good.  

At this point, Emily was due to deliver our first child within two weeks. And like the majority of first-time dads I was in the throes of delivery-room anxiety, which included a fear of fainting in what I imagined to be a sea of bodily fluids.

This selfish anxiety paled in comparison to what Emily would face in the delivery room. But my fears had already evolved into an imaginary scenario I could not get out of my head: Me fainting and having my pathetic self wheeled out of the delivery room as I try to whisper "sorry" through the oxygen mask — all of which would be followed by my eternal humiliation.

I took comfort in the understanding that I wasn't alone. Generations of American men have faced my anxiety and shared my ignorance and lived.

When guys talk about childbirth, which is rare, they describe it as an ordeal, a possibly gooey trial that must be endured. As the days ticked by I sought out these veterans — who were easy to identify at social gatherings by their bloodshot eyes.

“Make sure you’re up by her head," they'd say. "You do not want to look down.”

Jon Sweeney / MSNBC.com Enjoying the calm after the storm, Tom Loftus cuddles baby daughter Nora.

And then would follow a long, detailed description of what to expect. I learned that the placenta looked like the biggest, rarest steak imaginable.

Books were suggested. One friend, a new father, thrust a book called “The Birth Partner” in my hands. I flipped to a chapter detailing what to do when your baby dies. Jeesh. No thanks.

Then I thumbed through several well-worn birthing books, but it was hard to study diagrams of labor positions when the daddies illustrated looked like they just walked off Rajneesh's commune.

For me, the books only highlighted what I perceived to be my uselessness. It was Emily who was pregnant, who lugged herself with 35 extra pounds down city streets to work, and who looked at me with envy when I ordered a second beer.

Breathe deeply, daddy
Two weeks to the day of our hospital tour Emily started experiencing light, but regular contractions. I met her that evening outside her office. She was surrounded by a half-dozen female co-workers offering their good wishes and telling me to take care of their friend.

I felt more prepared. I had managed to thumb through all the color photographs of a conception-to-birth book, feeling nauseated most of the way.

At 3 a.m. the next morning, after hours of holding Emily's hand and counting down the elapsed time of stronger contractions, I faced my first big daddy task — the hailing of the taxi. I set Emily down in the lobby of our building and ran out into the street, arms flailing, to grab one.

Shortly after arrival at the hospital, a resident stopped by to see if Emily, now in a gown and attached to a fetal monitor, would like a little Demerol. 

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