I became a father three times, through three very different births. What connects them in my memory is not one hospital, one professional or one medical decision. It is what happened when the people involved stopped listening.
First birth – choice
During the first birth, labour lasted three days. From my perspective, we were repeatedly sent away while the pain and exhaustion continued. On our third visit I refused to leave. I remember being told that admission would only be possible if my partner received pethidine, because that would require monitoring. They did not want or need the drug, but I experienced the choice as no real choice at all: accept it, or leave without a bed.
After admission I was told I could not stay on the ward. I went home, only to be called back urgently because the baby was coming. After the birth, I saw my partner left catheterised while the baby lay out of reach at the end of the bed. I became angry and demanded help. What remains with me is the feeling that I was expected to support my family while being treated as though I were merely visiting it.
Second birth – consent
At the second birth, I watched a doctor pick up a scalpel and move towards an episiotomy. A midwife interrupted to ask whether consent was going to be obtained. My partner refused. I later made a formal complaint. Whatever the clinical stresses in the room, consent should never depend on somebody else noticing that it has not yet been sought.
Third birth – communication
The third birth happened unexpectedly at home. While preparing to leave for hospital, we realised there was no longer time. I called 999 and explained that I am autistic, become overwhelmed by overlapping speech, and needed one instruction at a time. The questions and directions kept arriving together.
I was told to fetch towels, but not why. I assumed they were for cleaning and wrapping the baby. I did not understand that I was expected to use one to help catch them. When the baby arrived, they slipped through my hands on to the floor. That detail is difficult to write, although no harm was done, but it explains why accessible communication is not a courtesy. Under pressure, clarity can be the difference between useful action and avoidable confusion.
The vital importance of listening no matter the circumstances
These are my memories and my perspective. I cannot tell the whole story – I am not the person who gave birth – and I am not naming my family, clinicians, hospitals or emergency personnel. I am not arguing that every member of staff failed us, nor that pressure on maternity services is imaginary. Beds matter. Staffing matters. Funding matters. But listening, informed consent and clear communication matter too.
That is not only a personal conclusion. The 2026 Independent National Maternity and Neonatal Investigation reported repeatedly hearing that women and families were not listened to, heard or believed. NHS England’s Accessible Information Standard says that disabled people, including autistic people and family members involved in care, should receive the communication support they need. Its practical sequence is simple: ask, record, flag, share, act and review.
In an emergency there may be no time for a perfect communication plan. There is still time to hear a direct request such as “one instruction at a time”. There is still time to say what a towel is for. There is still time to ask for consent before approaching somebody with an instrument.
Traumatic memories led to a modest but urgent lesson
I eventually turned these memories into a song called *Birth Stories*. Writing it did not establish an objective record or settle every disagreement. It gave me a way to say what I experienced without pretending to own anybody else’s story.
For me, the lesson is modest but urgent. Treat the person giving birth as a person whose consent remains active under pressure. Treat a birth partner as a participant who may hold essential information as well as communication needs of their own. When somebody explains what they need in order to understand, adapt the communication rather than simply continuing more loudly or quickly.
Listening is not an optional extra added after the clinical work; even under pressure, it is part of the clinical work.
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