How to be a Dad, Not a Doctor

By Jack Dryden

“But I don’t think they’re contractions," my wife said early on a Sunday morning. She called her mom as I ruffled through the papers we had been given at her OB appointment. After searching, our sources agreed—these were indeed contractions, and we should get ready to go to the hospital.

We had done our best to prepare for this day. The nursery was arranged, the dresser drawers were filled with neatly tucked onesies, and a name was picked out. We both made arrangements with our professors to miss class, as she was enrolled in a Chemistry master’s program, while I was in medical school. Only one factor had yet to be decided: to get an epidural or not?

For my wife, this decision was not as simple as “generations of tough women have done this without any pain meds, why shouldn’t I?” While contemplating the process of childbirth, she worried that an epidural would lead her to feel like she hadn’t “earned” it. She worried that this feeling would prevent her from bonding with our daughter. I think this mindset came from her background as a high school and college athlete. Coaches often preach that discomfort leads to growth: “no pain, no gain.” And while it can be incredibly valuable to choose the harder option, she was unsure as to whether or not this would hold true during childbirth. This dilemma brought anxiety, and this anxiety pushed the issue to the back of her mind. But now the moment had arrived, and a choice had to be made.

We piled into the car and drove to the hospital, a million emotions bouncing around in our minds. After a brief hunt for the correct check-in desk, I scribbled all of our information onto the sign-in sheet. From there, we were directed to triage where my wife was evaluated. Then came the surprise. The triage doctor calmly stated that the contractions were not yet strong enough, and we were encouraged to return when they intensified. They told us to go home! We didn’t know they could do that! Although the time that followed at home was short, it provided a window for our anxiety to continue building.

Throughout all of this, my mind kept wandering back to what I had been learning in school. I’d spent the weeks leading up to this day knee-deep in OBGYN lectures. Ironically, I had watched a lecture about the stages of labor just the day before! Yet, in this moment of truth, I found that the knowledge Ihad gained while studying did nothing to dispel the feelings of uncertainty I was experiencing. Knowledge alone was not enough to inspire confidence.

By the time we returned to the hospital later that evening, my wife had grown determined: “It’s time for this baby to come out, one way or another”. We were brought to a room where a nurse ran through a list of questions including, “Would you like an epidural?” I looked at my wife expectantly, unsure of how she would answer.

While this attentive nurse quickly ran through all the details of an epidural, my wife was leaning forward on the edge of the bed, as her breathing was focused and her muscles were clenched. It was hard to tell how much of the nurse’s spiel was getting through to her. Ultimately, this nurse recommended getting one, and my wife responded with a simple “Okay”.

Her breathing had become labored because, by this point, the contractions were coming hard and fast. The pain was building. As someone who knows her very well, it was clear to me that my wife was having a hard time organizing her thoughts. While acquiring an epidural was not an incorrect decision, it was reached without her full mental attention. She was distracted by the pain. It seemed like her discomfort in that moment prevented her from processing the information she had been given. In the face of hurt, the issues that had worried her earlier carried far less weight, especially when the tradeoff was relief from the pain.

An hour later, when the anesthesiologist later entered the room, she laid her instruments on the bedside table and instigated casual conversation. I asked if I could watch the epidural. She said she didn’t recommend it. I let slip that I was a medical student who actually wanted to become an anesthesiologist. Her facial expression made it clear that this changed things. She began to explain the type of syringe she was using, the drugs she preferred, and the proper method for guiding in the needle. This enthralled me, and I began to picture myself in her shoes later in my career.

As the pain medication began to kick in, my wife drifted off into a well-earned nap. When it came time to push an hour later, our obstetrician entered the room. It quickly became clear that the obstetrician had somehow gotten the memo that I was in medical school. As he guided our baby out, he predominantly directed his comments toward me—the anatomy he was observing, the stages of labor, and how he would need to suture once the baby was out. My mind raced to connect what he was saying to the lectures I had heard on these same topics and I was pulled out of the moment.

Now, while looking back, it's clear that revealing my identity was a mistake. As soon as I said that I was a student, both the anesthesiologist and obstetrician switched their personas to “teacher mode”. While not inherently bad, I noticed that their shift in demeanor led them to focus on me, rather than their patient—my wife. I can’t help but wonder if their words might have been better used to comfort and guide her, rather than teach me. If I could go back, I would keep my identity as a medical student private. Instead of treating me like a student, I wish they would have treated me like a new dad.

As a future doctor, I tried to engage with whatever was occurring while utilizing an intellectual approach, rather than an emotional one. I tried to rely on my knowledge to guide me through a situation with which I was unfamiliar. Ultimately, my concerns about what I knew or didn't know took away from my ability to embrace the experience of becoming a father. It would have been better to trust our healthcare team, whose confidence came from years of experience instead of a lecture slide or textbook. In the end, after 20 hours of labor and 13 minutes of pushing, we were able to meet our daughter. She is now three months old and beautiful. At the end of the day, we are simply happy that our baby girl is here, safe and healthy.

In my first few months as a parent, uncertainty has persisted. Every day brings something new. But I find comfort in the fact that today’s uncertainty leads to tomorrow’s wisdom. As we do our best to navigate unfamiliar situations, we can rest assured that they are preparing us for our future roles as physicians or, like in my case, as parents.