The Father's Strength

Now we are three. Our son Myles Dylan Ikenna Chipperfield was born in Adelaide on June 12 at 7.58am by caesarean section. A flawless delivery by Dr Karen Chandler and her team at Burnside War Memorial Hospital – the only hiccup was that Vina required two doses of anaesthetic (spinal block) to do the job. Amusing to hear the surgical team chatting about their own family lives (school outings, buying party dresses and the like) while we waited for our own family to begin. If Vina looked nervous she hid it well behind smiles and jokes. 

Then the blue screen went up and the surgical chitchat slowed. There was a momentary lull from the other side of the screen and then my son appeared, held high in the air by Dr Chandler, screaming his lungs out. Like a mini prizefighter, bloody but triumphant. Is there anything more dramatic than birth? The glare of lights. The audience. And the star of the show, fresh from the placenta and still attached to his rope-like umbilical chord: a tiny astronaut, stepping naked and alone into deep space. From the dark to the light. 

Modern childbirth is a highly choreographed affair – there is the cutting of the umbilical chord, a quick once over by the paediatrician, the wrapping of the baby and first hug from mum and dad. This is a hug like no other, when the whole world, the universe and stars under God are cradled in your arms. It’s like a slow motion bungee jump into a giant bed of happiness. Except that nothing is moving, apart from the gyrations of your heart. I feel the pinprick of tears, but I do not cry. You cannot really cry if you are this happy. Punch drunk happy, you might call it. 

There is so much to say about that sparkling Winter morning in Adelaide, but what stays with me is the time I spend with Myles alone, waiting for his mother to return from the operating theatre. I listen the gurgles and sniffles and tiny little cries coming from his crib. There’s a watermelon grin across my chops. This is my son named Ikenna (“The Father’s Strength”) to honour his African heritage. Our journey is about to begin. But for the moment I am content just to listen, to marvel, to breathe. The rest of the world can go hang. I have a newborn son.

IVF Dads Need A Voice

Heartburn, indigestion, flatulence, bloating, occasional headaches, nasal congestion, nosebleeds, ear stuffiness, sensitive gums, leg cramps, backache, pelvic achiness, haemorrhoids, protruding naval, leaking nipples and varicose veins. Sounds tempting, doesn’t it? Actually this is just a sample of what a woman, such as my wife, can expect in the ninth month of pregnancy according to What To Expect When You’re Expecting (HarperCollins Publishing) – our constant companion over the past few weeks.

The authors then describe the woman’s potential emotional state, which veers between trepidation, excitement and absentmindedness. Not exactly Myra Hindley territory, but you get the idea.
As an IVF dad I feel that I have a duty to warn other men about the emotional rollercoaster that awaits them. No one else seems to consider the male contingent to have any role in the IVF process – apart from the obvious, ahem, initial contribution. I’ve scoured the Internet for advice, but without success. Our own IVF clinic in Adelaide has no resources aimed specifically at men and websites such as yourfertility.org.au discuss issues such as sperm mobility but nothing on the emotional front. What To Expect When You’re Expecting does have a chapter devoted to expectant fathers (including some advice on how to “warm up” a pregnant woman for sex) but nothing specifically about the IVF dad. The tone of the writing is, frankly, a little patronising.
The fact is a woman going through IVF is extremely vulnerable to violent mood swings, going from elation to despair in seconds. This emotional sensitivity is exacerbated by the large amount of hormones injected to stimulate egg production during each IVF cycle.
Getting pregnant via IVF is a high wire act, no question. Your partner is going to need your unequivocal support – even if you feel faintly panicky yourself. For a woman in her 40s the stakes are even higher and the fear of failure even more extreme. This can act like a pressure cooker on a relationship. Wannabe IVF dads out there be warned!
Some women become so obsessed with having a child they will undergo 20 or 30 cycles. Stories in the gossip mags about wafer-thin celebrities having “miracle babies” only heighten the sense of frustration. NB there is no such thing as a miracle birth apart from the one in Bethlehem and none of the IVF specialists I have met has a God complex.
“We do what we do, but in the end nature will decide whether you have a child or not,” our consultant said. “If possible we tilt the odds in your favour. We’re not magicians.”
Being an IVF dad is a demanding role for which few of us are really prepared. Men might discuss the embarrassment of sperm donation, but little else. Jokes about wanking at the clinic are about the closest most blokes get to emotional bonding. “I took one look around the room and I knew could say without contradiction that I was surrounded by wankers,” said a fellow IVF dad, now the father of two.
I think we could and should do better. Over the next few days I’m hoping to persuade a leading IVF clinic to partner with me to create some support material specifically for IVF dads. Given the fertility issues facing many countries, not just the affluent West, men need to be better informed, more involved and less invisible. Let’s get the debate started.

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