Julie Jay: The pains of hearing men talking about labour
This week just gone I shared a green room with a comic who repeatedly complained about a pain in his leg.
“It’s like a dull ache,” said this male comedian, with the bemusement of a man who had never been hurt before. “What do you think it could be?”
At 36 weeks pregnant it was hard for me to feel much sympathy for this man, but I still smiled and wished him a speedy recovery because he books shows and the hustle never stops.
Later on in the week, I found myself in the company of another man who told me his old rugby injury was playing up again.
“I had an operation on my hip last year and I asked the doctor if this was as bad as labour and they were like 'it’s definitely as painful as labour',” he told me proudly.
“And let me guess, this doctor was... male?” I hypothesised, and he nodded vigorously.
“Yes, and he really knew what he was talking about,” came the reply — because, of course, those lovely lady doctors are such spoofers.
At some point in every man’s life, he has felt a physical pain and thought to himself 'this is what labour must feel like'.
To any male reader leafing through this column because it was left on the canteen table and you’re on your tea-break, I can assure you, it is not. Take for example our old friend Mr Episiotomy: though he sounds friendly, it essentially involves two holes becoming one. The Spice Girls even wrote a song about it.
When it comes to labour, men have absolutely zero skin in the game, so are definitely not in a position to pass any opinion on the process. That said, in a strange way, I do feel for the men in that they are very much on the peripheries of the whole thing. They are labour adjacent: bystanders to the big event rather than actual participants, and much like Michelle in Destiny’s Child — totally superfluous to requirements.
Recently, while queuing for a flat white, I got talking to a woman who is a retired midwife, and who told me that she happens to read this column (a huge relief, given that I was fairly sure my readership consisted entirely of my aunties and former students). As we chatted I asked her if she missed her work.
She thought about this for a moment. “I do,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what I don’t miss — the husbands.” “Oh really?” I prodded, mad for the bit of labour ward goss and sensing that the faintest of nudges would satisfy my thirst for second-hand stories.
“Don’t get me started,” she continued. “I once had a fella ring his mother on Facetime as the baby was crowning.”
I make a mental note to never give out about Fred again.
“Then they all think they’re doctors just because they’ve watched an episode of . I mean, of course people should always ask questions but the men never seem to understand the urgency of the situation.”
“I have to say, my husband nearly missed the whole thing last time..." I start to speak, but the woman jumps right in to reassure me.
“And weren’t you better off? Sure, we’re only making up jobs for them to keep them occupied.”
“Did you ever have any fainters?” I ask. I’m at the counter now and feeling sad that our coffee shop conversation is coming to its natural conclusion.
The woman smoothes down her perfectly blonde bob. “Fainters? Every Day. Dhera you’d feel bad for them really, sure most of the men don’t have the stomach for it at all.” She pauses. “Except the cattle farmers — they’ve all been there and worn the t-shirt.”
And there it was, half the population of the world reduced to a 'wisha god help us' by a certified medical professional.
I ordered my flat white (no, not decaff, because even pregnant women deserve to feel jittery every once in a while), and considered men and their complex relationship to the process of childbirth.
Generally guys, the less you say about childbirth, the better. A few months back, a comedian told me about his wife’s caesarean.
“How was the recovery?” I asked.
And the comedian in question scratched his head, looking distinctly unbothered, and responded immediately: “It was actually grand, totally fine.”
“But afterwards she must have been in terrible pain?” I pressed, though again this comedian’s face was one of breeziness.
“Nah, it really wasn’t that bad,” he said. And if I had chosen murder in that moment, no court would have convicted me.
I returned home to Fred, bemoaning the comedian’s nonchalance, decrying the gendered injustice of it all, and Fred nodded sagely.
“Maybe you should get a caesarian, pet?” he postulated. “Save you all that hard work.”
Ladies, you heard it here first. Turns out some of Ireland’s most loved male comedians have uncovered an absolute gamechanger: it would appear all we women have to do is volunteer for a C-section and everything else will fall into place!
Of course, the C-section itself is akin to a man in latex gloves looking for keys in a tote bag, only the tote bag is your body. And it will involve a six-week recovery period, and a ban on driving — but this is a small price to pay for saving the men the trauma of having to watch an episiotomy unfold.
And sure girls, where would we be driving anyway? Saudi Arabia had the right idea when they had us off the roads all those years — one less thing for our tiny little lady brains to contend with. The six weeks off is actually doing us a favour.
I’m telling you, the sooner these comedians get on the board for the National Maternity Hospital, the better. Viva la Revolution!
Guys, in case my sarcasm isn’t clear, let me close with the words of a much more proficient communicator, Seamus Heaney. When it comes to the subject of childbirth, “whatever you say, say nothing".
We love you, but on this topic, keep the mouth zipped and we shall all live a happy life, episiotomies and all.