The Birth of a Bouncing Bungee Jumping Baby

You shouldn’t read any further if visions of blood or stories about medical procedures make you squeamish

I’m a retired midwife now, so this story about a bouncing bungee-jumping baby won’t mean instant dismissal or a civil suit. And the name change should cover my identity.

When the night shift arrived in the birth suite to take over the care of my patient, they were surprised to find me helping the mother and new baby to breastfeed. No, breastfeeding didn’t surprise them. It was how I looked while I helped.

My face, my hair, my glasses, my scrubs were colored with a visible spray of blood.

Being stoic and professional, I managed a façade that was firm, interested in my task, showing warm feelings toward mother and baby. Internally, I was shaking and anxious about this image of me as a professional, not making it onto a Facebook feed via the hundreds of pics taken by the dunderhead father.

Okay, now I have the anxiety out of the way I can tell you the story.

As a midwife, I loved what I did. My goal was to support the couple and let them have the most memorable, magical experience they could imagine.

When things aren’t going to plan, intervention may be necessary. If this is the case, then the team would be very considerate in explaining the issues to the couple, informing them of the better course of action to take, and keeping them always updated.

This plan is even more effective when the couple lets the team know what underhand dastardly deeds they’re planning to conduct while seeking the holistic care and hospitality of our health facility.

The Plan

This was the woman’s third baby and second partner. Two uneventful births and three uneventful pregnancies. We should all be so lucky.

I had a student midwife with me, and our planning was straightforward. The woman was happy to stay in the shower, and her partner was helping to ease her labor pain with warm water to her back.

A midwife can tell a lot by the behavior, demeanor, and vocal conduct of a laboring woman. I knew that the birth was about to happen, and the mother would need physical support if she wanted to birth in a standing position.

I asked the partner to let me into the shower stall to help, but he blocked my access.

He squatted in the doorway, and I couldn’t reach past him. He still had the handheld shower spray in one hand.

The birth

The baby dropped headfirst into his other hand. There was no way he could catch and hold the baby with one hand.

His other hand sprayed the enclosed environment with inattention.

The baby’s fall was stalled by the father’s hand, but not stopped.

The baby continued to fall and bounced onto the floor of the shower, landing on its back.

The cord snapped.

Blood sprayed.

The baby slid between his father’s legs.

He sailed on his back into the birthing room.

He sped across the floor.

He head-butted the discarded birthing mattress and stopped.

I was so glad there wasn’t a water-holding sill on the edge of the shower floor.

Although the baby didn’t make a sound (shock I diagnosed later), I did detect in a split second the reflexes were intact.

Arms and legs were moving briskly. So was I.

I pinched the cord at the mother’s end and told her partner to hold onto it tightly.

Thank goodness, the task had him out of my way

I quickly pinched the other end of the cord. I checked the baby as I asked the student to hand me the warm bundle of wraps, and a cord clamp, then please ring the buzzer for help.

Once dry and warm, the baby decided to vent his anger at this rude entrance and interruption to his blissful existence with a loud wail, just as the pediatrician arrived to examine him for bungee-jumping, wet-floor sailing-injuries. Everything was fine.

We helped the excited mother onto the bed for examination. The extremely excited dad was on the phone, walking the length of the hallway, to deliver the blow by blow description of how he delivered his son.

I silently prayed for him to believe he was instrumental in his son’s “normal” entrance into the world.

I marveled at his self-restraint to not spend the time with his partner and newborn.

I took his place at the bedside while his thrilled partner, eyes shining with pride, told me that her baby’s father really wanted to deliver the baby himself.

Aha, I thought, blocking the access was his plan. I learned he had two children with his previous partner who experienced long labors and delivered on a bed, lying on her back. Did he miss school the day with the lesson on gravity?

Managing mistakes

This man had no conceivable idea about his actions and what could happen.

If he’d taken the time to discuss his plans with us, we could offer guidance to help.

I heard him on the phone saying he had no idea how slippery or how heavy the baby would be.

In his selfish ignorance, he put his partner and his son in jeopardy from trauma and injury. And the midwife lost two of her nine lives.

Communication is so important

To expectant parents, my advice is to communicate with your team, and with each other. Let them know your expectations, your fears, your plans, the extent of your yearned for involvement, your eager participation.

I’ve seen fathers who really didn’t want to be there, who are totally uncomfortable with the whole hospital scene. They stay reluctantly through pressure from the partner and/or their mates. No expectant father should be pressured or made to feel guilty by not being present.

I’ve seen partners pushed aside by the woman’s mother. And birthing women who don’t want their mother present, but their mother is insisting loudly on being there. Tell your midwife about your concerns. They may be able to help.

The midwife, in fact, the whole obstetric team, will go to great lengths to give you the best possible outcome for this experience. However, they can’t give you the best experience possible if they don’t understand the motivation of the players, the expectations of all parties.

Talk to them.

Every birth is magic and memorable.

Make your experience unique.