In Summary
  • The word shame does not exist in that secluded corner of the word, your eyes and ears learn to live with shouting, wailing, undressing, cursing, everything.
  • That waiting room is a little community brought together by joy, pain, expectation, sometimes regret.
  • Do you have feedback about this article? Please email: lifeandstyle@ke.nationmedia.com

On a freezing evening in October 2014, I found myself in a room with pregnant women in different stages of labour.

Save for the two male gynaecologists who walked in and out to check on the patients, I was the only man in that waiting room.

For the uninitiated, that is the little room with many beds where they let the women rest as they await dilation of the cervix.

That is when they are wheeled into the delivery room and a new being is introduced into the world.

You men should look for me privately so that I can share the insults I heard about you that evening.

While you sat at your local drinking and watching millionaires chasing a little round leather thing, your women were clutching at sanity and calling you names; very bad names.

The word shame does not exist in that secluded corner of the word, your eyes and ears learn to live with shouting, wailing, undressing, cursing, everything.

That waiting room is a little community brought together by joy, pain, expectation, sometimes regret.

CONCERNED NURSE

“Are you accompanying her into the delivery room?” An elderly lady in a blue dress with a white collar and black flat shoes asked, giving me a very concerned look.

“Yes. Am I not allowed to?” I asked.

“No you can go in, but men usually collapse there.”

I told her that I had made up my mind. You see, I have a very small body. To make it worse, Heavens did not give me a lot of flesh.

She must have looked at me and wondered where the shock absorbers were in this emaciated-looking young man, clearly a first-time parent.

I can bet she must have put fellow medics on standby just in case there would be a delivery happening on one bed and first aid on another.

But she was kind enough not to give me the actual statistics, because if she had just added ‘nine out of every ten men collapse in delivery rooms, five of which die’ I can assure you the world would have watched my lanky figure sprint through those corridors like I was possessed.

Nine out of ten would have meant every man that goes in ends up on the resuscitation table, because the tenth man is the gynaecologist, who is not allowed to collapse.

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