An Exciting Day -- Part Two

Kim curses and moans (and wretches) for the rest of the way to the strangely distant hospital, and I drive as rapidly and carefully as I can. I pull up the PT Cruiser in front of a secondary entry to the hospital and open Kim’s door. Trissa parks in a nearby lot as Kim finishes a contraction. When Trissa catches up with Kim and me, the three of us start to walk inside, slowly. Somehow, no one thinks of a wheelchair. We take the elevator one floor up, start to walk up the wide hallway ramp that ends at a reception area for Labor and Delivery. Kim has to stop and lean against the wall as a mega-contraction grips her.

“Can’t even walk, can you?” a nurse shouts down from the reception desk. Kim’s doctor, a woman in her late thirties with a great bedside manner, has been trailing us, barely noticed, since we walked in the hospital. She keeps a respectful and watchful distance as, eventually, Kim hobbles up the rest of the way to reception. They put is in a nice corner delivery room with hardwood floors and big windows, better than the one we’d tried the other day during the failed inducement. A large bathroom with a sit-down shower comes with it. They put Kim in the bed and on the baby monitor, temporarily, and the doctor measures her cervix. Five centimeters – halfway there! – and the doctor says she’ll be back in a couple of hours to see how it’s going.

“Two hours?” Kim says, nearly in tears. The rest of us in the room know the time will go by much more quickly for all of us than it will for the mom-to-be. At any rate, Dr. R. won’t be farther than a page away. Dr. R. makes her exit, and Kim and Trissa start the serious work of getting Kim as relaxed as possible.

I pitch in what words I dare, knowing this is women’s work (above all else), but wanting to be the supportive husband I’ve been groomed to be in natural birthing class. I help massage Kim in the sit-down shower; I do my best to let Trissa make small talk with me. Could I need relaxing? Every twenty or thirty minutes they need Kim to be strapped to the bed again for monitoring, and it’s clearly the hardest part. Riding out the contractions is complicated by the rigging, mentally and physically.

About 12:30, the contractions are getting more intense and more painful, and it appears to me that Kim is now in Stage 2 of heavy labor – arguably the hardest part. She is visibly going inward to find the strength to ride out the contractions, listening closely to Trissa, sweating. She has already vomited and cleared the rest of her system, too. Perhaps someone should summon the doctor, I venture, to the nurse, when she comes in for another round of monitoring. “I’m no expert,” I say, “But … ” Dr. R. is summoned, and does come, and she says Kim’s at 9 centimeters and we’re definitely about ready for pushing, but she won’t be able to stay with Kim for the duration, because, as luck would have it, two babies are coming simultaneously. Dr. R. coaches Kim a bit, while examining her, and then goes to “catch” the other baby.

Kim can sense she should start pushing soon, and asks permission. She’s on her knees in bed, her torso draped over the upright head of the bed. She’s looking towards the wall. This is how she has weathered the latest, most intense, contractions. In fact, the nurse has been kind enough simply to hold the monitoring device up to Kim’s belly and not require the painful process of strapping the thing on. Yes, Kim’s told, it’s OK to push on the next contraction. Kim’s low moans rise in volume and I feel that I am part of her, that we are the one flesh described in our marriage ceremony. She is so focused, and so beautiful, and so far beyond the realm of shame, but she’s in pain and here it comes again and, God, she’s getting louder.

“Low, honey,” Trissa says. And Kim moans low, low – and still at great volume.

The contraction passes. Floral-print nurses are suddenly setting up the baby-warmer and other equipment. We’re close, and they know it. The doctor is back now. Kim is in a contraction and, still on her knees, moaning from the depths of her soul. Trissa is speaking calmly in her ear and willing Kim to stay focused and calm.

“She’s crowning,” Dr. R. says. I’m behind the doctor, who is behind Kim, so to speak. And, as luck would have it, I’m staring at the wrong part of Kim – the world has been turned upside down in every way.

“You may want to adjust your view,” Trissa politely suggests.

“Hunh?” I say.

“You may want to watch from a little lower.”

“Ah,” I say.

And here it comes. My baby’s head, blue and white, is pushing out. Dear God don’t let anything go wrong now. Please, God. Another contraction begins; Kim moans more loudly still. More of our daughter’s head shows, and now her whole head is out. Of course, she’s upside down from how I’d pictured her, and she’s squeezing all the way out now -- with her umbilical cord held tightly in one hand. “It’s a baby,” Kim says.

The doctor has in fact “caught” our angel, and hands her to the nurses who are in a tightly choreographed dance of care. They clean baby, clean Kim – enough for Kim to hold baby on her belly and put her to the breast. They pronounce baby “beautiful,” and leave.

Kim, who had expressed bountiful doubts about her mothering skills before today, is holding baby to her breast just as the nurse showed her and – need I say it? – more beautiful than she has ever been. After Trissa departs, too, I kneel beside mom and baby and take in the scene. Kim is safe; baby is safe; and I am safe. For a moment, the whole world is safe.