The contractions are steady and right at the edge of unbearable. Like fangs but not fully clamped down. I don’t have to answer. Tristan reads my expression.
“I’m here now. I’ll keep time and breathe with you, OK? Do you need something else to get comfortable?”
My eyes moisten. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me too, Ligaya.”
“Oh, this is a big one,” I say as the contraction builds. The intensity lasts nearly a minute.
My dad brings us sandwiches with a special wink in my direction. An hour or two trickle by and the contractions are still sporadic, though they last longer each time.
Tristan and I talk about everything and nothing. We watchBrooklyn Nine-Nine,but my pelvis feels so strained when I laugh, we turn it off.
When the Mavericks hit the ice in Seattle, I assume we’ll be watching it. Tristan brushes it off like the Stanley Cup isn’t on the line. He chooses to rub my feet instead.
“You should be there,” I say guiltily. “I’m sorry you’re missing it.”
“I am exactly where I want to be. Forget the game, Ligaya. You and the babies are everything to me.”
He breathes with me through the contractions, which have started to come more consistently. They are exhausting. I’m left sweaty and shocked, like I outran a train then got hit by it anyway.
Unfortunately, I’m not dilating at the expected rate. The monitor shows the peaks climbing higher, lasting longer, but my cervix refuses to cooperate.
Dr. LeGuin checks in with bad news. “You’re barely dilated. We should talk about other options.”
For the last few hours, the waves of pain have been climbing higher and higher. But instead of carrying me closer to delivery, they only slam me in place. Each contraction is relentless yet futile. Fatigue and stress battle for my attention. I’m also getting a little mad at my cervix, not gonna lie. Do your part and dilate already!
Tristan never leaves my side, reminding me how strong I am, how brave, how beautiful. His concern wraps around me, yet nothing fully appeases my unease about the babies.
What if they feel my stress? They are barely moving—or maybe I can’t feel them between the merciless spasms—but something feels off.
“I want a C-section,” I whisper, then louder. “It’s time.”
“Are you sure?” Tristan asks.
I nod and turn to Dr. LeGuin. “A C-section would make it easier to manage the babies’ positioning, right?”
That’s the other thing that troubles me, since only one of them is head-down.
“Yes,” Dr. LeGuin says stoically. “It will.”
I turn to Tristan. “Let’s do it.”
“Are you sure?”
I mumble “yes” as another contraction screams for all of my attention.
“If a C-section feels right, that’s what we’re doing. I’m here for anything you need. I love you, Ligaya.” His voice breaks. “I love you and am so proud of you, sweetheart.”
I nod, and it’s as if a green light flicks on.
The doctor rattles instructions, nurses wheel me through hallways, the anesthesiologist explains something about spinals, and the glare of overhead lights sting. Tristan is beside me in a gown, his hair stuffed into a surgical cap, his hazel eyes glassy with emotion. A curtain rises across my waist, a division between what my body is about to go through and what my mind can fully process.
I’m awake. Not super alert but undeniably present. Perhaps this isn’t the “natural experience” I had hoped a vaginal birth would signify, yet I refuse to diminish the momentousness of the next few minutes.
This is right for me. Formybody. For our children.
The room fills with motion and sound for two minutes.
