Getting Ready for My First Born: The Night of Bad Questions

3am

I was awakened by some noise. The flicker from the television caught my attention as I struggled to open my eyes. My wife was stroking her fully stretched tummy. “Are you ok?” I asked — immediately realizing it was a bad question. With my glasses on, I could see pain written everywhere.

She told me she had called the delivery suite and was advised to wait until contractions became more frequent, around five minutes apart.

“Is it painful?” I asked. Another bad question.

4am

We started counting down. How should I feel when my wife experiences more frequent contractions — a.k.a. pain? “Oh, it’s seven minutes interval. You’re going to hit five soon!” Clap?

I was certain we needed to head to the hospital soon. I took a quick shower. When I came back, my wife was on the line again with the delivery suite. I imagined the voice saying, “Congratulations for hitting five minutes. Come and collect your prize.”

5am

We reached the hospital and were ushered to Room 11. The nurses asked a series of very bad questions and left. “How is your pain? Ten points for most pain and zero for none.”

My wife calibrated and said, “Seven point zero, round down to one decimal place.” But frankly, my ruler said it was a ten, rounded up to the most auspicious number. I rolled my eyes, only to be greeted by another question: “What is your name?” What? I thought I told you the moment I stepped into the room!

6am

A doctor came in. “What is your name? How are you?” he asked with a smile. I cannot remember the rest. My wife answered patiently. "Gina".

"No change — don’t want to confuse the baby." I murmured.

6.30am

Finally, a good question: “I suppose laughing gas won’t help. Do you want to consider epidural?”

Despite pain written from head to toe, she looked at me. I read her. She had wanted to pull through without it — because in the mother world, delivery without epidural merits a Medal of Honour. But I reminded her: if you’re going to take the epidural in the end, then every minute of suffering before it is just wasted pain.

I was grateful her pain was at grade ten then; it made her give up the medal before it turned into a Purple Heart.

(An epidural is a form of regional anesthetic administered into the spine. It’s a precise but invasive procedure, with possible side effects, yet it remains one of the most effective ways to relieve labor pain.)

7am

The angel (anesthesiologist) with a huge needle came and mercifully drilled it into her spine. The epidural killed her labour pain and relieved me of the guilt of not being able to feel half of what she felt.

At the end, the angel chuckled, “Wow. Your threshold for pain is fantastic! I almost thought you didn’t need epidural!” I still don’t understand what “almost thought” means. But I do understand that a person who can cause level nine pain can still be considered an angel. Einstein calls it relativity. I call it a matter of circumstance.

8am–11am

Another angel arrived — the gynae. My wife, relieved of the pain, had become too relaxed for delivery. The angel folded her wings neatly and installed her horns matter‑of‑factly.

“Lower the epidural from ten to five.”

Then, “Lower to two.”

Finally, at 11am, she gave the go‑ahead to start the delivery process.

“Pain is the doorway to beauty.,” she added prophetically.

Author’s Note

The nurses and doctors in this story were wonderful. The “bad questions” and “horns” were just my way of injecting humor into a painful process. In truth, they guided us with care and professionalism. Repetition is necessary in medicine — assumption is the real danger. So, thank you to the nurses and doctors. I love you all. And I love my wife and baby more.