Page 101 of Hold the Pickle

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Page 101 of Hold the Pickle

“No, I’m from Sacramento. I was here for a work trip when the pain started. My husband is driving down, but it takes six hours.”

I pull up a stool next to her. “That’s scary. All alone in LA. Did you call your OB/GYN back home?”

“I did. The on-call nurse told me to come to the ER.”

“Good call. How long have you been in pain?”

“Since about—” She cuts off to let out a long slow groan.

I feel uneasy. That seems like more than Braxton-Hicks to me.

“I feel something!” she cries. “Right now! I feel something.”

Shit. I step to the curtain and peer out. “Nurse?”

There’s no one at the moment.

I guess I better examine her myself. I’ve been present for three deliveries, so I know the basics, if that’s where we are. I snatch up a box of gloves and put on a pair.

“It’s coming!” Jennifer starts panting. “I knew it was real!”

It’s my job to be confident and reassuring. “Let’s see what we have.”

I help her slide back and lift the skirt of her dress. Her underwear is soaked, tinged in pink.

We work together to pull down the underwear. Her hands are shaking.

The minute I take a closer look, I know I’m about to do a delivery. The head is crowning. We are out of time.

“Jennifer, I can see the baby’s head. We’ve got this.”

“It’s too early!” she cries. “I’m not due for six more weeks.”

“This is an excellent hospital,” I tell her. “Everything is all right. See if you can huff without pushing.”

If I can slow her down, I can get help in here, a nurse. Call the NICU team down. Right now, I don’t dare step away until I see if it’s coming immediately.

“Deep breath. Don’t push. Huff through this contraction.”

But I can already see it’s too late. More fluid gushes out as the head emerges.

“Okay, Jennifer, we’re having a baby. Go ahead and push.” I place my hands into position to support the newborn.

She lets out a long, heavy groan, and the head comes fully out. I don’t have suction. I don’t have anything, but I use the paper sheet to wipe the baby’s face and pull mucus.

“One more good push.”

I shift the shoulders as Jennifer strains. Then he’s out in my hands. A boy. Good grief, I don’t have a blanket. I have nothing.

He’s not crying. I flip him onto my arm and rub his back.

“Why isn’t he crying?” Jennifer breathes in gulping sobs.

I aim his head down and rub again. The baby gasps, then there it is, that first tentative cry.

“Oh, thank God.” Jennifer reaches out her arms.

I help lower the shoulder of her dress to place the baby against her skin. “Let’s cover him with your skirt until we can get you properly set up.”


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