At 9:44 on 10 May 2018, I was lucky enough to witness my first birth.

The healthy boy was born via elective caesarean section. It would be her third caesar, and she was prepared for the aftercare involved. I spent about an hour with the parents before going into theatre, and learned about their life and history. We really had a chance to chat and get to know one another as we prepared for the surgery. When the call finally came, along with the hospital aide, to take her through, a shock of adrenaline flew through the room.

As we walked down the long quiet hallways towards theatre, mum sitting cross-legged on the bed, we joked and laughed about silly things. We were all grinning, very excited for what was to come. We left mum in her bed with an empty cot beside her so that we could get changed. Dad put scrubs on over his clothes, and the midwife and I changed into blue scrubs. I picked the wrong sizes, so my shirt was comically large and my pants comically small. She donned a disposable blue cap and handed me a green “student” cap.

When we went back to the parents, they were talking to an anaesthetist registrar who was preparing solutions and needles for the mum. They gave her a cannula (which squirted a movie-like line of blood a half-foot across the room), and then we waited. We kept waiting. We waited for about 25 minutes. It felt like forever. By the end, we didn’t have anything else to say. Dad was getting scared – the cheesy puns that he had kept up since 7am were finally fading. Mum looked solidly grounded in the moment, suddenly aware of the fact that she was going to be holding a baby in her arms any minute now.

The anaesthetist poked her head through the doors and said it was time to come in. As a well patient, mum comfortably waddled into theatre and hopped up on the bed. We did a quick round of introductions; in the room were the anaesthetist and her registrar (intern), the surgeon and her assistant, two nurses and a student nurse, the midwife, and myself. The students and intern were superfluous, but the bare minimum core team consisted of six people who must be present for every caesarean. Everything was covered in sanitary blue wraps, and everybody wore masks – all important steps for infection prevention. I was firmly advised not to touch anything.

Dad was still waiting outside, and I’m not really sure when he was invited into the room. At no point did he go below the curtain, as it was a graphic scene and it is widely understood that it’s best for dads to go without seeing the surgery. He was available on a stool next to her head to act as support for mum. He held her hand throughout, talked her through the feelings, and stroked her hair. They were so intimate, forehead to forehead while the surgical team did their work. He had been in the same position for her previous caesars, and they had the routine completely down.

Meanwhile, mum had her back painted with sanitizer and had her spinal inserted. What I’d learned in school led me to believe that it would be a long, thick needle, but it was quite small and expertly inserted between her vertebrae. She started to lose control in her legs almost immediately, and they swung her lower half onto the table and leaned her back quickly. They painted her vulva with sanitizer and inserted a catheter, and then painted her belly. As soon as that sanitizer dried, they raised the drape up under her breasts and tested her for sensation below the spinal. The anaesthetist ran a cold gauze pack over her toes on both feet, up her legs, and over her tummy, communicating the whole time about feeling. Mum couldn’t feel a thing.

They strapped her legs down, and cut into her lower abdomen. It was a swift incision, cleanly over her previous scars. She barely bled, and open vessels were immediately cauterized. The surgeon was clearly experienced and comfortable. She pulled the upper layer of skin and fat away, and ensured that mum’s bladder was protected. I could see a layer of muscle, with some white strings – the nurse next to me explained that this was scar tissue from the prior surgeries. When she had stretched back the layer of muscle, we could see her uterus.

It was beautiful. It was this glowing, shimmering orb of moonlight under the lights. It exuded a formidable power, somehow, and I could see the baby’s head undulating underneath the top layer. The only way that I knew they cut into it was the sudden rush of liquid, and the sound of the vacuum seemed to bring everybody out of their stupor. The room became very busy, as everybody leaned in and prepared for the baby to enter the world. One surgeon had her fingers under the baby’s head inside the uterus, and the other was pushing down externally on the mother’s belly from under her breasts. In one swift motion, he was born into the world, looking just as shimmery and full of life as her uterus had a moment before.

Lion King style, the surgeon held the baby up for the parents to see the sex – it was a surprise for everybody. He was a healthy boy. The surgeons turned back to the wound, and I was expected to take the baby! The midwife and I moved swiftly and popped him into the cot, took a very quick set of vital signs, wrapped him up, and handed him to his mother. He had about 7 minutes of cuddles with her while they stitched up the wound, and then we took the baby and the father out of the room to quickly check his weight, measure him, and ensure that he was healthy.

Later, as they were breastfeeding and bonding, the mum told me a little bit about what it felt like. She said it was indescribable, in that she had lost all feeling, but still had sensation. It felt like pins and needles all over her body, but she could in no way pinpoint specific motions or actions being performed. She felt pressure when they pushed down on her belly, and she felt that pressure relieved when he came out and her stretched out belly deflated. She said she felt anxiety when she couldn’t see him, and that the early moments without him felt like her heart was being ripped from her chest. She said that putting him back in her arms felt like she had slipped into a deep, hot bath. She said all the pain and discomfort was already fading away. She was also still very well drugged when she told me this, so please take her romanticism with a grain of salt.

Caesarean sections are major abdominal surgery. They are dangerous, painful, and take weeks of recovery where mum cannot lift their baby or move independently – a huge difficulty in early mother-baby bonding. The worldwide rates of c-section are far too high, and it’s a huge danger for mum and baby to perform them unnecessarily. The risk of infection is astronomical. Midwives support women through a vaginal birth as much as possible. However, a birth is a birth, and babies will enter this world however they may choose.

The surgical team did two caesars that day, and they will have at least two planned on Monday. They also have emergency caesars, and I’ve walked past dozens of birth rooms with well-labouring women easily heard inside. The small hospital where I’ve been completing my placement has hundreds of births every year, but after being so close to one, I was struck by how important each birth is. It’s something that all of us have been present for at least once in our lives – our own births. Each of us was a risk. But we are all the unique and special focus of attention for that moment.

My mother has always said that it was nonsensical for a woman to spend so much time and energy making and raising a child just to send it off to war, and I always agreed, but I don’t believe I ever truly understood that sentiment until this day. This birth was extraordinary. Each and every birth is extraordinary, and the day when I stop feeling that way is the day that I need to find a different career path. For now, I’ve chosen the right one.