By the time a doctor shows up, I’m embroiled in the battle against panic. It’s taking too long. The contractions are too far apart. It took over an hour before the OB showed up to check me.
The OB is an older man, medium height, thin, with small, almost delicate hands. Bald, but with a short, trimmed beard going white.
I’m almost fully dilated, but not very far effaced. Which means more labor.
God, it hurts.
Another two hours of pain, and then another doctor shows up: the anesthesiologist. I’m turned to sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the edge, my gown pushed forward, nearly off. A minute or two of preparation, packages being opened, sterile gloves tugged on.
“Dad, you may want to step out for this,” the anesthesiologist says to You.
“I’m a combat veteran,” You say. “Not gonna freak out over a needle. And there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her.”
“Well then, pull up a chair in front of her. Hold her hands and let her put her forehead on your shoulder.” You do as he says, and there’s a smear of cold on my back. “This is iodine, to clean the area. Now, hunch your back for me. Lean your forehead on Dad’s shoulder and push your spine out toward me. Good. Yeah, now hold it like that—hold real still for me, okay? Deep breath in... and let it out all the way.... Now a quick pinch—”
Jesus, that’s not a pinch, it feels like a fucking sword being shoved through my flesh. I breathe through it, teeth clamped, squeezing Your hands so hard I think I hear bones being ground together. You are stoic, letting me crush Your hands, watching the doctor insert the needle. I stare at Your feet, at the worn, beloved Adidas sneakers You’ve owned for so many years, the laces tied in a permanent double knot, tongue tugged to one side, heels scuffed and frayed from years of shoving Your feet into them. Breathe through the pain as the doctor fiddles with things at my back.
“Okay,” the doctor says, “that’s in, all connected. I’m gonna start you off kind of low, and they’ll crank it up as you go. Good luck, Mom and Dad.”
There’s a rushing sense of numbness spreading through me, a sense of relief. Calm. I can see the contraction-measuring device’s readout from my bed, and I watch with wonder as the readout shows a contraction, but I feel nothing. Blessed, peaceful nothing.
Another three long boring hours and the OB comes back, checks me again. “You’re effacing nicely, Miss de la Vega, almost a hundred percent now, and fully dilated. That’s good news. And your contractions are consistently a minute or two apart now, which means we’re getting closer to baby time. You’ll get there.Not long now.” A pat to my hand, and then the OB is gone again, white coat billowing, bald head gleaming.
Despite the OB’s promise of “not long now,” it is still several more hours before anything changes. I’m dozing, rolling from one side to another. I start to feel an ache. Distant, but real. A sense of the contraction through the epidural, a clamping down of my womb. And a need to push.
You’re sleeping, curled up awkwardly on the fold-out chair/bed, asleep instantly in that soldier’s way You have.
I endure the ache and the need to push for a few minutes, but then it starts to become unbearable, pushing down on me, a kind of desperation infusing me.
I push the call button, and within seconds a nurse is bustling in, efficient, energetic, eyeing the monitor, casting a glance at You.
“Oops, looks like it’s go time, Mama.” A nudge to Your foot. “Wake up, Dad, you’re about to have some babies.”
You sit up immediately, rub Your eyes, blink a few times, and then the room is full of people. One person does something to the bed, removing part of it and unfolding stirrups, lifting my feet high and wide, spreading me open for the whole room to see. I’m beyond caring, though, because now even with the epidural the pain and need to push is all-consuming. Someone else has turned on blinding lights overhead. Another person is getting supplies ready, and yet another—or maybe it’s the same few nurses moving in efficient harmony—is turning on a machine and shoving aside the chairs.
“Go stand by her head, Dad,” the OB says, by way of entrance. “Hold her hand and when I tell her to push, you count to ten. She takes a breath, and then you count to ten again. Okay? Oh, yep, here we go. Moving right along, aren’t we? Maria, can you cut the epidural off? She needs to feel the contractions now. It’s gonna hurt a bit, but you have to feel them so you know when topush. Hold your man’s hand and break his fingers if you have to, we’ll fix them when you’re done.”
A nurse does something the IV feed, and the epidural fades, a reversal of how it kicked in. Peace, calm, relief... it all fades away, replaced by crushing, all-consuming, fierce, fiery agony. All-pervading pressure centered on my womb and my bowels. There is no space between the contractions, it feels like, no chance to catch my breath, just wave after wave, one contraction on the heels of the last, and the need to push, push, push.
“Not yet, Mom, don’t push yet.” The OB is putting on a kind of gown covering the front, and then a kind of clear plastic face mask, and a pair of sterile gloves. “Okay, I think we’re set. Here comes a contraction, Mom, get ready to push. Deep breath in... and PUSH! Count for her, Dad!”
I hear You, feel You. I bear down with every fiber of my being, teeth clenched. I don’t scream, don’t waste the effort on it. Just push, push, as hard as I can, while You count.
“. . . Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten!”
I let out the breath, gasping, whimpering, turn to look up at You, try to smile when You take a moment to brush my sweaty hair out of my face. And then I’m sucking in a breath and bearing down, pushing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
“Good, Mom! You’re doing great, the first one is crowning! Keep pushing, keep pushing!” I take a quick breath and push even harder, and then there’s a feeling of being emptied, something pulled out of me, and there’s a moment of silence, a brief respite from the pain.
And then a sound fills the room, and I am irrevocably altered. A sound, and my heart now exists in the world outside of my body.
A cry.
