July 9, 2025: News that West Suburban Medical Center—where our three sons were born—has abruptly closed its obstetric and neonatal units sent me back into the archives for this column I filed in 1992 for the Wednesday Journal of Oak Park and River Forest*:
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Reflections on fatherhood, the third time around …
A lot of natural-childbirth advocates frown on the use of drugs during labor. Especially for women.
But I’m a convert. Compared to two previous deliveries, when lesser anesthetics left my wife painfully aware of her body below the neck, this time a spinal anesthetic transformed birth from an agonized, chaotic flirtation with hysteria into a calm, reasoned, close-to-enjoyable time of wonder.
The epidural made childbirth something more akin to the way the “Judy’s Pregnant” doll works than to that memorable scene from Alien. Instead of telling me to just shut up and let her squeeze my hand—or any other convenient extremity—into fleshy pulp with each contraction, my wife actually laughed at my nervous dumb jokes.
Unaware of any sensation below her waist—unable even to hold her knees up—her pushes became more like a spin on an exercise bike than torture on the rack. Reduced to a helpless witness twice before, this time I got to play an active role—among other things, keeping those knees afloat.
Without all the puffing and moaning, I was able to ask the doctor questions I couldn’t work in edgewise the first two times. (“Is that the head? What are you doing with your finger? What are you going to do with those scissors?”) I got to cut the cord. I had time to bond with the placenta.
All told, a much more rewarding experience this time around.
And I’ve advised my wife to tell any hard-line LaMazies she encounters that, yes, she had an epidural … but she didn’t inhale.
I saw the circumcision this time. We had little choice at this point; once our first son had endured it, the die was cast for the two who’ve followed. Otherwise, bathtime might’ve meant psychological trauma all around.
The obstetrician performed with compassion and, more importantly, precision. And I was impressed with the tool of the trade—an elegant steel device that looked something like a cross between a cherry-pitter and a garlic-press. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover it in the exotic implements department at Crate & Barrel.
But had I seen this excruciating process six years ago, I might’ve lent more credence to what the obstetrician says is a growing body of medical evidence that suggests it’s totally unnecessary.
Anyway, the trauma is part of the kid’s past now. And, really, he stopped crying within minutes. I hope he survives his first prom with as much poise.
Oak Parker Charlie Meyerson is the news director and morning newscaster at WNUA (95.5 FM) in Chicago. His column appears regularly in the VIEWPOINTS section.
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* On whose nonprofit board I now serve (in 2025).
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