I need a name, though.
I decide, temporarily at least, on MiN: Mothers in Need.
Realizing I’ve been working for several hours without a break, and that my bladder is screaming at me, I decide to take a break. I’ve also been feeling occasional contractions for the last few hours, what I assume are Braxton-Hicks contractions, and usually getting and walking around helps them go away.
So I stand up, and I’m immediately gripped by a sharp, painful contraction.
Pop; warmth and wetness on my thighs, streaming down my legs.
“Logan?” I keep my voice quiet, calm.
You glance up. I’m wearing a loose, ankle-length dress, so there’s no visible evidence of what’s going on. “Yeah, babe.”
“My water just broke.”
You blink at me for the space of ten seconds, and then You’re up, grabbing my laptop and Yours. You say nothing. We’ve discussed this. You take my arm, guide me inside. Grab theovernight bag You’ve had prepped for the last two months. I stop in the bathroom to put on a pad and grab a couple extra, and then we’re in the car, and You’re driving with barely restrained frustration through the typical Manhattan traffic. It’s a Friday, six in the evening, which means traffic is a snarled nightmare.
You’re holding my hand and driving with the other. Your jaw is tensing.
“Logan?” You shoot me a look. “Take a breath. It’s okay. We’ll get there.”
“In this traffic, you could be having the babies in the car.”
I gesture out the window. “Well, good thing there’s an ambulance right there.”
And there is, too, trundling along two lanes over, lights off, siren off, the driver’s arm hanging out the open window.
You laugh, finally. “Why are you calmer than I am?”
I shrug. “Probably because the contractions haven’t really started yet. Give me time, I’m sure I’ll start panicking soon.”
And, oh, how right I am. The contractions haven’t even really begun in earnest yet, from what I’ve read. They’re still several minutes apart, and yes, painful, but not as bad as what I’ve read has led me to expect. What has me panicking is the knowledge that—again, according to everything I’ve read—once my water has broken, the only options are to have the babies naturally or to have a C-section. What if I can’t have them naturally? I don’t want a C-section. I don’t want to be cut open. But what if something is wrong that I don’t know about? What if we take too long getting to the hospital and the babies go into distress? Ireallydon’t want to have the babies on the side of the road, for all that I joked about it with You. That was to calm You down; I need You calm, in control. Because I am panicking now.
And a contraction has me in its grip.
Sharp, fierce, aching, clamping, so sudden and crushing I can’t breathe. So painful it makes me whimper.
“Breathe, honey, breathe through it. Remember? Like at the class.” You went to the Lamaze classes with me.
I try to breathe. Just like a panic attack, I have to force the oxygen into my lungs, force them to expand and suck in air, and then I have to force them to contract, expel the air. And again. God, it hurts.
I’m starting to think the contractions I was feeling weren’t Braxton-Hicks contractions—practice contractions—but real, actual labor. Which means I could be closer to having these babies than I thought. I glance at the clock as the contraction finally releases me: 7:32p.m.
We inch through traffic, stuck between blocks, waiting through cycle after cycle of the traffic light. Inch by inch, forcing myself to think of nothing, to just breathe and just be. Fight the panic, fight the anticipation of when the next contraction will hit. Inch by inch, minute by minute. We make it through the intersection after five minutes. At the eight-minute mark almost exactly, another contraction strikes.
I try to remember what I’ve read about the stages of labor, but my brain will not supply the answers.
Two more sequences of contraction/rest, and we finally reach the block where we have to turn. And then, God, we’re stuck on that block. And the next. Inch by inch, minute by minute. You aren’t talking, which is fine, but You are still holding my hand, and You don’t say a word when I bear down with each contraction, squeezing Your hand until I’m sure I’m close to breaking bones. You just tolerate it, and squeeze back.
By the time we reach the hospital, the contractions are six minutes apart.
You pull under the ER pavilion, and we’re met by a large black male nurse with a wheelchair, who greets us by name; apparently You called ahead? I don’t remember that. Iremember hearing Your voice, but I was in the middle of a contraction at the moment and had no attention to spare.
I’m wheeled through the hospital—but You’re not at my side. Where are You? Parking the car, I think. But I need You, Logan. I can’t do this without You, not any of it.
I feel You first, as I always do. And then Your hand is in mine and You’re beside me, kissing the back of my hand, telling me it’s going to be okay. A contraction hits, and when it clears, we’re in the maternity ward, and I’m being helped to my feet, out of my clothes, into a gown, into bed. Wires connected, monitors and leads. Another contraction, hard and painful. But still six minutes apart.
I need them closer together, not because I want the pain but because the closer they are together the sooner I’ll have my babies in my arms. The sooner this will be over. The sooner I’ll know my babies are safe, and healthy.
