This week I reported to work with one hope: that there would be at least one delivery. There were two. The first came in the middle of patient rounds. The beeper went off, and I was surprised by how fast the residents started running toward the door. I rushed to catch up, losing time as I squirted alcohol cleaner on my hands.
As we walked, they told me “it’s a 9-1-1.” I had no idea what that meant, but later learned this is the term for any delivery that was unplanned. Usually the pediatrics team doesn’t go to full-term, vaginal deliveries. We are called at all C-sections, premature births, or when the baby might be in distress.
This time it was a premature vaginal delivery. We rushed into the delivery room, and I was surprised to feel the mood change immediately. Birth is so intense, and this delivery had gone fast. The lights were dim and yellow, like a glowing fire. The head was already out, and seconds after we arrived, the baby was placed on the warming table. The residents were still scrambling to turn on the oxygen and suction dials on the wall.
There in front of us was baby, covered with white cream and smears of blood. A 6-inch umbilical cord hung from him, and looked like part of a jelly-fish. He looked up with big, blinking eyes. I was frozen… WOW!
The residents immediately started rubbing him, squeezing his umbilical cord to take his pulse, listening to his heart, suctioning him, and then giving oxygen with a positive-pressure mask. I tried to do something useful, which was impossible at first. I smiled at dad who had come to observe us. I listened to baby, but I didn’t know what to make of his raspy lungs. He was having some trouble with his breathing.
Every few seconds, they would count 1-2-3 and in a coordinated dance, lift baby and change the cloth underneath so he would stay dry. Finally, we clamped his cord close to his belly, and dad cut it. Then, we bundled him, and they let me, the medical student, carry this brand new bundle to his mother. I handed her baby, and said, “felicidades” because she and her husband spoke Spanish.
The second call came during lunch. Again, I dropped everything and tried to keep up with the residents. In fact, I left my stethoscope on the chair! This birth was also a premature vaginal delivery, but it was slower. We had plenty of time to set everything up while mom was in the final stages of labor. I was alarmed by the tubes they prepared, in case they needed to intubate the baby. They checked the suction, and the oxygen bag. This time I knew what to expect, so I got ready to help with the drying, rubbing and blanket-changing dance.
These were the first births I’ve seen since my brother was born, almost 20 years ago. I barely remembered the chaos that happened right after my brother was born, but it suddenly came back. There was lots of rubbing and suctioning, and I cut his umbilical cord a while afterwards. He was swaddled in a blanket, and I held him and handed him to my mom.
Most of all, I was in awe of my brother, just as felt as I watched the newborns in the nursery. There is something so special about new babies, new life, and the moment of birth, mixed with pain and joy. I thought I was going a little crazy after spending time in the nursery. I started looking at baby outfits on Google. Then, I even thought about having a baby before I finish medical school… for about 30 seconds.
The truth is that starting a family during medical training is terribly difficult, especially for women. I’ll explore this topic in a different entry soon, but for now I am enjoying the new babies, one of my favorite parts of pediatrics. Getting to see something so sacred as human birth and newborns makes all my sacrifices seem worth it.
