My dad was my doula
My dad wore a Camelback to my daughter’s birth.
What do you find weirder—that my dad was in the room when I gave birth or that he was wearing a device normally reserved for outdoor recreation inside a hospital?
Let me explain both.
When it came time for me to decide who would be present at my daughter’s birth, things got confusing. I’d never done this thing before—pushing a being out of my own body—and as such, had no idea what it would feel like or who I would want by my side while it happened.
When I consulted books or friends, they mostly talked about the importance of thinking carefully about whether I wanted a midwife or an OB-GYN. Sometimes they would focus on selecting a doula. Every once in awhile they would get into the weeds of whether it made sense to have a mother present. My mom was going to be in the birth room; that was a no brainer. She’s not a midwife, but she’s basically a midwife—wild red hair, giant, soothing hands, the wisdom of a woman who has seen a lot of blood and a lot of life and neither scares her.
But in all of my conversations and reading, no one ever even entertained the idea that one’s father might be good to have in a birthing room. And yet, here I was with this instinct that my dad could be indispensable. He is my person. We are built very similarly—one part tender, one part analytical, plenty of anxiety thrown in the mix. In my 20s, when I would have the occasional panic attack, it is my dad who would lie down next to me on the bed or the bathroom floor and remind me that everything would be okay, even if it was totally not okay, it was still okay. He pickled me in praise—completely convinced that I was the most talented, insightful human to ever walk the earth. While I knew that wasn’t accurate, there was a sort of safety net in his hyperbole. I had to be at least a little of the light he saw. The world had to be at least a little okay if he said so.
My dad left the Catholic faith of his childhood for Buddhism, which he mostly keeps to himself, but occasionally we have long, winding conversations about suffering and attachment and all the hardest things about being human. Even after meditating for fifty years or so, he’s not really all that good at internalizing the lessons. Which makes me trust him even more. He still screams at other drivers, clings to the love of his life (my mom, who he met in 6th grade), and forgets to be grateful for the way the sunlight falls on the stucco wall beside his hammock while he rests in the afternoons.
In any case, if my body was going to expunge another body, and something incomprehensibly sacred was going to happen, I thought it best if he was there.
Would he see my vagina? (Amazingly, I think this is what people are most concerned about when they hear that my dad was there.) I had no idea, but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t really care and neither would he. He knows I’ve got one. In the midst of meeting this soul for the first time, we both bet that being embarrassed about my anatomy wouldn’t be top of mind. And it wasn’t.
The Camelback? I can’t really explain that. Other than that my dad, who is infinitely practical, thought that it might be a long day and he may get dehydrated, all of which was actually true.
After the mind-blowing moment when a three-minute-old creature crawled up my chest and nursed like a pro, after John held our yet unnamed baby and cried like one, after my mom cradled that dark-haired, dark-eyed babe in her two giant hands, my dad finally got to hold her. And it was like it was always supposed to be that way—her tiny head against his steady heart.
Today is my dad’s birthday. Happy birthday, Papa. Thanks for being my person. And now Maya’s. We love you.