A dab HAND!
Jade Brown, 24, from Sunderland, was about to pop at home, but her partner was a hand short...
Sighing, I looked at my partner Rhys, 28, sheepishly walking through the front door after playing football. ‘What have you done now?’ I asked, glancing at his crippled hand. ‘I just took a tumble,’ he moaned. It was last June, and he’d been playing a five-a-side game when he stumbled backwards, landing awkwardly on his thumb.
It was the first time Rhys had taken to the pitch in six years.
‘It bloody hurt,’ he told me. The following morning, he got it checked out at the doctor’s.
‘Turns out my thumb is broken,’ he explained, holding up his hand – all bandaged in a cast.
Rhys explained how he’d broken it in three places – which meant he was unable to use his thumb at all.
‘Oh diddums,’ I teased him, chuckling.
At nine months pregnant, I had little sympathy for a hand injury when I was about to endure the agony of pushing a baby out.
‘You’re so clumsy,’ I told him. ‘How are you going to change our little one’s nappies with one hand?’
‘I guess you’ll just have to do it,’ he laughed.
Rhys and I were both so excited to welcome our baby girl into the world and grow our family.
I already had Imogen, three, from a previous relationship, and she really adored Rhys.
That’s how I knew he would be a great dad to our baby.
Rhys’ arm was put into a bright blue plaster cast from his
knuckles to the middle of his forearm.
‘It’s got to stay on for eight weeks,’ he said.
‘You’ll be a dad by then,’ I told him, rolling my eyes.
My due date was fast approaching us.
‘It might be tricky juggling the baby,’ I said.
Rhys got used to doing things onehanded and I helped him as much as I could.
A week later, I bent down to pick up a sock off the floor when I felt liquid gushing between my legs.
‘My waters have gone,’ I shrieked to him.
Rhys and I rushed to hospital, but midwives told us that I wasn’t dilated enough and sent us home.
‘Come back tomorrow afternoon if nothing’s happened and we’ll get you started,’ they reassured me.
That evening, I tried to get some sleep, but by 2am the pain was
It was one speedy delivery
completely unbearable.
I was trying to put into practice what I’d learnt in my antenatal
classes – and breathe through my contractions – but they soon started coming thick and fast.
There was no hope of either of us getting any shut eye so Rhys and I went downstairs and sat on the sofa.
‘You’re doing really well,’ Rhys assured me as I huffed and puffed, squeezing his good hand every time I got a twinge.
‘I can’t cope, it’s agony,’ I cried. ‘We need to get to the hospital.’ Rhys called for a taxi, but things started to speed up so he was forced to dial 999.
He was connected to an operator who told him that an ambulance was on the way.
But, before long, the situation escalated further and Rhys had no choice but to get involved.
He rushed round grabbing towels and blankets, whilst I lay there wondering how on earth we’d give birth to a baby at home.
‘I need to push,’ I told him. ‘She’s coming, fast!’
I couldn’t hold on any longer and after a few pushes our baby girl slid out on our white leather settee.
Rhys had to step in as midwife and deliver her – with just one hand.
He somehow miraculously caught our newborn daughter with one arm – whilst also juggling towels and a phone with his cast.
I locked eyes with her, whilst
Rhys shouted down the phone that she’d arrived.
It all happened so quickly.
Rhys placed our little girl – who we named Ariana – on to my chest. ‘Hey sweetie,’ I cooed.
And we noted down her time of birth as 4.23am.
‘Coming through,’ paramedics said, rushing into the living room to help us out.
‘I’ve already done your job for you,’ Rhys joked.
They quickly cut the cord and whisked Ariana and I to Sunderland Royal Hospital to get checked over, whilst Mum popped over to watch over Imogen.
After being told all was fine, we were allowed home to Sunderland, Tyne and Wear, and we settled into the chaos of family life.
Watching Rhys try to change nappies with one working hand was very comical, but he still did his best to help out where he could.
His football injury hasn’t stopped him from being a hands-on dad.
Ariana is 10 months old now, and she really is a daddy’s girl.
Rhys was a lot more involved in the birth that most dads are.
I’d originally planned for him to stay up top, but he ended up seeing it all down the business end!
Still, he was a brilliant midwife, such a natural.
And it’s a story we can’t wait to tell Ariana when she’s older.