The Hallway of Hope: The First Cry

My wife has been in excruciating pain for three days. The intensity of the pain is ever-increasing. Initially, the bouts of pain were spaced about 12-13 minutes apart. Now, they’re down to five minutes. We called the hospital’s triage, but they couldn’t provide much help. They suggested she stay home, take Tylenol, and soak in a hot bath, which she’s doing. While submerged in the water, she reminds me of a human submarine. Inside her is our baby, and she’s enveloped in water. I used to joke with her, “Let’s go to the swimming pool; you can be a human submarine.” That never happened, primarily due to it being winter. Even if it weren’t, we probably wouldn’t go. We’re a laid-back couple who enjoy the comforts of home. The term “couch potato” fits us rather well.

I work from home and rarely need to venture outside. Although she’s still a student pursuing her Ph.D., she manages to accomplish everything from the comfort of her couch. We order food and shop online. At most, we venture to Loblaw, our local grocery store, when we need supplies. Conveniently, it’s located just across the street from our building, so the trip takes about as long as descending from our 16th-floor apartment.

Anyway, I am moving away from the topic.

I’ve never witnessed such severe pain in my entire life. My respect for women, particularly my mother and wife, has grown exponentially after this experience. The pain a woman endures during pregnancy and labor is indescribable, and I won’t even attempt to convey it. Tears of pain fall from my wife’s eyes every five minutes, and I’m powerless to alleviate her suffering. I used to tell her that as a mother, she gets all the prizes—first, second, and third. I, as the father, merely receive the participant’s prize, which feels like nothing in comparison. As stated in our hadith tradition:

Now I understand that, as a man, I play a minor role in this process. I don’t experience any of the pain or struggle. The participant’s prize feels more than sufficient.

I believe every man should witness this pain to respect the women in their lives truely.

Tabassum, my wife, is a strong woman with an incredibly high pain threshold. She seldom cries out in pain. At least, I’ve never seen her do so.

I feel entirely helpless at this moment. I wish I could do something to ease her pain. Usually, cracking a few silly jokes lightens her mood, but it’s no help now; she would likely get irritated with me.

We went to triage last night. The nurse performed a non-stress test, and examined her cervix but sent us home as it hadn’t dilated enough yet. It needs to be at least 4 cm, but she’s only at 1 cm.

We had an ultrasound this afternoon. The receptionist, a fellow Bangladeshi, managed to squeeze us in despite the earliest available slot being next week. By then, our baby would likely have already arrived.

The ultrasound technician, also Bangladeshi and a former doctor back home, was incredibly helpful. She was due for a break but stayed to check my wife’s cervix. Unfortunately, it hadn’t dilated further.

Her due date was 4 days ago. The pain started three days ago, and there’s still so much left to do. We’ve reached out to Triage several times, but their standard remains the same. They won’t admit her until her cervix is dilated to 4 cm. I understand their perspective. Once she’s admitted, the process becomes much more involved. A clean room must be prepared for us, and the doctor and nurse will begin their constant vigil. It’s an expensive endeavor, and they can’t afford to waste resources unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Our baby is eager to come out and see the world—a beautiful world, inhabited by her stress-ridden but excited parents, who can’t wait to meet her.

Through it all, I stand by my wife’s side, feeling a strange mix of helplessness and awe. Watching her endure this pain with such strength, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming respect for her and all women who have gone through this process. And while I’m unable to alleviate her pain, I can at least be there for her, providing support and love in the only way I can.

As we wait, hoping for her cervix to dilate further, I realize that this journey, though incredibly challenging, is also a privilege. It’s a transformative experience that underscores the power and resilience of women—a lesson I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

The benefits of universal healthcare are numerous. Everyone receives the same treatment, regardless of their background or status. That’s an exceptional achievement, and I truly admire it.

However, as people hailing from Bangladesh, we were accustomed to receiving priority service. This was mainly due to our tendency to frequent private clinics, which, driven by profit, often catered to those who could afford their services. As the saying goes, “Money talks.” I’m not proud of this, but it’s a practice we’ve grown used to. Unfortunately, that mindset doesn’t apply here in Canada, where healthcare is universally accessible. While I usually appreciate this level of fairness and efficiency, witnessing my wife’s pain has made me wish for expedited attention.

Medical staff, in their commitment to uphold equality, seem oblivious to her suffering, which is deeply frustrating. I understand they have a long queue of patients, and they’re doing their best. But watching my wife endure this agony, my usual patience wears thin. I feel powerless to effect change and find myself sinking into a pit of despair, frustration, and helplessness. I find myself wishing for a miracle, someone or something that could alleviate her pain.

I’ve never felt this helpless in my life.

Back home, our parents, unfamiliar with the healthcare system here, continuously ask why I haven’t taken her to the hospital yet. It’s become increasingly difficult to explain that, despite my wish to admit her immediately, I can’t.

Their incessant calls and messages often start with the same question, “When are you taking her to the hospital?” I understand their concern. They’re not here to witness what’s happening firsthand. They concluded that childbirth in Bangladesh is easier since one can quickly go to a hospital for a C-section without enduring much pain. However, that process is not without pain and complications. My wife’s current ordeal with labor pain is a different experience altogether.

Perhaps this is why some men in Bangladesh fail to give women the respect they deserve. This notion may seem controversial, but it holds some truth. However, I’m not in the right state of mind to delve deeper into this topic.

Throughout her pregnancy, my wife has experienced three types of pain. The first was the mild discomfort of morning sickness as the baby started to grow. I can’t fully grasp how she felt during this time, but she seemed to manage reasonably well. The second type of pain she endured was Braxton-Hicks contractions, which started at the beginning of her third trimester.

Braxton-Hicks contractions tighten the abdomen intermittently, making the belly noticeably hard. However, as my wife shared, this pain was relatively manageable.

The pain she having now is intensifying progressively, and the intervals between contractions are shortening. She has been sleepless for the past 36 hours, her eyes struggling to remain open. Whenever she does manage to close her eyes, the searing pain causes her body to convulse uncontrollably, and tears streak down her face. It’s unimaginable how anyone could try to sleep while enduring such intense pain every six minutes.

Yet, the worst is still to come. Labor pain is significantly more intense than this. Amidst this pain, she will have to find the strength to push. She hasn’t been able to eat anything. This morning, I ordered an egg sandwich—two eggs nestled between an English muffin. It seemed like a decent breakfast. But she couldn’t keep it down, vomiting immediately. I didn’t sleep last night, either. When I finally laid down on the sofa and closed my eyes, I lost track of time and woke up two hours later. She was in the bathtub, submerged in hot water. I had missed her attempt at eating and throwing up.

We had to go for an ultrasound around noon, so there wasn’t much time for her to eat anything. The ultrasound didn’t reveal any immediate concerns, so we came back home. We had shrimp and biriyani in the fridge, her favorite. I asked if she wanted to try some, and she agreed. She managed to have three or four spoonfuls, but then she couldn’t eat any more. I’m worried about her deteriorating health and energy levels, as it could potentially affect her ability to give birth. Despite my repeated suggestions for her to eat something, she consistently declines. It’s not that she’s unaware of the importance of eating, but she simply can’t muster the appetite.

In the evening, she only ate a banana. I went to the grocery store and bought her strawberry milk, chocolate milk, yogurt, and more bananas, but she didn’t want any of it.

If she’s agreeable, I plan to take her back to the triage center tonight to see how things go.

We are preparing to head back to triage.

She has experienced a greenish discharge, which is concerning. Her back has become numb, making walking, standing, or even sitting extremely painful for her.

We called triage, and they advised us to bring her to the hospital.

12:38 AM

We’ve decided to call 911. At this point, she is unable to walk on her own, and her aunt suggested we get an ambulance. The assumption is that arriving in an ambulance might make her case appear more serious, prompting immediate admission. While this may be true in some cases, in our situation, it’s an absolute necessity.

Two paramedics arrived promptly while I was still on the call with 911.

We’re en route to the hospital.

The paramedics were incredibly kind and helpful. Their height made me feel like a dwarf. They conversed and monitored her contractions throughout the journey. One of them joked with Tabassum, saying, “I hope you don’t deliver here, but in case you do, we are ready.” It seems they came prepared for any eventuality.

We’ve arrived at the hospital, and the nurse examined her. It appears the baby has passed meconium in the womb.

So now they’re considering admitting her. On this Friday night, the hospital is eerily empty, with only one nurse on duty, who seems a bit grumpy.

After examining her, the nurse finally decided to admit her, Alhamdulillah (all praise is due to Allah).

She’s currently receiving an IV (intravenous fluids), although I’m not sure what it contains. But the good news is that they’ve initiated the process.

Her cervix is dilated to 3 cm.

She needs to use the restroom, but it’s currently occupied, and she’s struggling to hold it in.

We’ve decided to opt for an epidural for pain management.

We’ve just been moved to our new accommodations- the labour and delivery room. This is a significant relief.

3:35 AM

The first doctor who attempted to administer the epidural couldn’t find the correct spot, despite trying for about 20 minutes. He is quite young, perhaps a new doctor. He ended up requesting help from another doctor, who managed to administer the epidural swiftly and efficiently.

Epidurals can significantly alter the perception of pain, reducing it by about 80 to 100%.

Currently, she is doing well and is able to converse with me. The baby is also doing well.

I hope she is now in a state to appreciate my humour. I think I’ll try cracking a joke.

4:26 AM

The baby’s head is positioned low. Her cervix has only dilated to 4 cm. The doctor is assisting in the process, trying to speed things up, but every case is unique, and there’s no specific timeline.

I wonder how women used to deliver babies without the assistance of an epidural.

Right now, all we can do is wait.

I’ll see if I can manage to close my eyes for a bit.

She’s being given oxytocin to stimulate contractions. I’ve just had a quick snack and some water. I think I’ll try to get some sleep. I’m not tired at all, but I probably should be.

7:00 AM

I managed to doze off and apparently snored. Her cervix has now dilated to 5 cm. The baby is being monitored closely due to the meconium. They’ve stopped the oxytocin to ensure the baby remains comfortable.

7:10 AM

I just had a conversation with Tinni Apu, Tabassum’s cousin. She is a doctor herself. She has a theory that this part of the world deliberately makes the birthing process difficult to discourage population growth. On the other hand, she believes that in Bangladesh, doctors strive to expedite the birthing process to ensure a healthy baby, often resorting to induction medication at a very early stage.

I’m not sure if I should believe her. But honestly, I’m not sure what to believe at this point.

Allah is all-powerful. I put my trust in Him.

My mother-in-law is anxious: “What’s happening now? The baby is inside, ingesting its own waste. The baby is in an unhygienic state. I don’t understand why the Canadian doctors can’t comprehend this simple thing.” I don’t know what to do. I’m just sitting here, feeling helpless.

I had a comforting conversation with Khaled, sir. He is a professor at the University of Dhaka, our teacher, with whom we have a friendly relationship since university, and we practically consider him as a part of our family, our guardian. He reassured me that the situation here is better than in Bangladesh. I shouldn’t worry because the doctors and nurses are doing their best.

I sought out some breakfast, ending up with a cup of coffee and a muffin. I’ll try to get some rest now, although I’m not sure if I can.

Two doctors came to visit her; they were very helpful.

The baby’s heartbeat is stable.

The doctor has decided to proceed with a C-section. There’s no point in delaying it any further. We had a quick discussion with the doctor, asking for an expert opinion. I told the doctor to do what was best for the baby and my wife, emphasizing that they were the experts here. The doctor recommended the surgery.

12:22 PM
I’m in the hallway, waiting to hear the baby’s first cry.

If a C-section was necessary, why did she have to endure so much pain?  Only Allah knows.

I’m waiting for the nurse to call me into the operating theater, eagerly anticipating the sound of the baby’s first cry.