Vincent reluctantly let go of Noah’s hand and sat down gratefully. “Is it always this full of people?”
Monica shook her head, blue eyes twinkling at him over the edge of her mask. “No, there’s a pediatric team and an incubator and extra crash trolley in here, so that when your baby is born, Sandra isn’t trying to divide her attention between mom and baby. Means she can focus on your partner, and Jay will look after the baby.”
Vincent looked around, and saw one person in scrubs drag a step ladder to the perimeter of the crowd around Noah, then climb up the steps, digital camera in hand.
“That’s Martin, he’s the scientific photographer,” Monica explained. “Sandra will want a record of the birth because abdominal pregnancies are so rare. I’ve never seen an abdominal pregnancy delivered before.”
Vincent tucked his hands into his armpits to stop them from shaking and nodded. “I was worried that there wouldn’t be any pictures because I couldn’t bring a camera in. Will we be able to get copies do you think?”
“I’m sure Sandra will let you have some,” Monica assured him.
Someone was writing on a whiteboard with a marker pen, scrawl that Vincent couldn’t understand, and there was a clatter of metal on metal from beside the operating table. He couldn’t see Noah at all any more, he was hidden behind green cloths and a press of people. Someone moved, and Noah’s hand was there, stretched out to one side on a support of some kind, pale and still. Vincent bit back a sob.
However terrifying it had been to watch Ella struggle through labor and delivery, this was far worse.
The big light over the table flicked on, and a gloved hand reached up and moved it, using the plastic covered handle. There was steady bip from a machine, and the room became strangely quiet, the silence punctuated only by Sandra’s calm instructions.
Monica leant her head closer to Vincent. “It’s not usually this quiet. They’ve turned the radio off and no one is gossiping because you’re with us.”
There was a sudden bad smell in the room, the acrid smell of smoke, and Monica said, “That’s the diathermy machine, Sandra’s cauterizing with it.”
Time crept past. At one point, Sandra said, “Someone crosscheck the blood and put it up please,” and Vincent watched as a bag of livid red blood was hung over the table and the color snaked down the tubing.
There was movement and Sandra called out, “Vincent, want to come see your baby being born?”
Monica took his elbow and tugged on it, and the press of people opened up for him. “Don’t touch anything,” she whispered as she pushed him forward to the table. He blinked and looked down. There were green cloths everywhere, and instruments and a bit of blood.
And a baby; under a thick cloudy membrane he saw his baby’s face. He wobbled a little and Monica’s hands clutched at his waist, steadying him.
Sandra had an odd shaped pair of scissors in her hand and she called out, “Someone call the birth, please,” and snipped at the membrane.
A voice responded, “Three, twenty one and ten seconds,” and there was a whoosh of fluid running into the green cloth as she slit the membrane open.
The baby was limp and grey when she lifted it out and onto a cloth, wrapping it quickly, suctioning its mouth and nose. The baby cried, a strange thin noise, and Vincent was crying, tears soaking into his mask, his breath coming in gasps too.
“That’s right,” she coaxed the baby, and it moved a little and began to cry more loudly.
Someone called, “Thirty seconds,” and Sandra looked up at Vincent. “Want to cut the cord, Vincent?”
He nodded, and Monica said, “Wait until the scissors and clamps are laid down on the cloth for you before you try and touch them, everything else is sterile.”
Vincent nodded then reached out and picked up the scissors that were put in front of him and squeezed them, cutting through the thick ropy cord. His eyes were fixed on the baby, mewling with its eyes shut, and he had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it.
A male voice said, “Let’s go, folks,” and the baby was being lifted up and carried across to the humidicrib. “Come and see your baby,” Monica said, and tugged on Vincent’s waist, pulling him back from the operating table.
He clung onto Monica as two people bent over the baby, and someone called, “Five seconds to Apgar 1.”
There was a pause, and Vincent rocked on his feet a little. “Five,” a male voice said. Then the same voice said, “Does dad want to hold the baby?”
Monica pushed Vincent forward again, and pulled the stool he had been sitting on before behind his legs. “Sit down,” she said.
He sat, and held out his arms, and the baby was handed to him. Monica took his hand and showed him how to hold the oxygen tube against the baby’s face, and the baby cried, eyes shut, mouth open.
The baby was tiny in his arms, much smaller than Ben had been, still bluish, and he held it to his chest. “We love you,” he whispered.
The baby was taken out of his arms again, and Vincent looked over to the operating table. He could smell the diathermy machine again, and the steady clink of metal on metal again. “Noah,” he whispered to himself.
“Five seconds to Apgar 2,” was called out.
“Eight,” was the answer, and Sandra looked up and caught Vincent’s gaze. “Everything’s fine,” she assured him. “Go to intensive care with the baby, I’ll look after everything here.”
Vincent nodded numbly, and Sandra turned back to her work, before pausing and looking back over her shoulder. “Vincent?” she said quickly. He looked across at her. “Congratulations, to all of you,” she said, her eyes shining.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pain was rolling through Noah in great waves, rushing in then ebbing away, but never sliding off the shore completely. His eyelids were made of lead, impossible to open and his throat was rough and sore.
The pain slipped away again and he felt like he would give anything for a sip of water. His eyelids struggled open and the pain rolled back in. The room seemed dark, foreign, full of shadows and shapes and he tried to speak but only a croak came out.
His vision started to clear and a figure lolling in an armchair finally came into focus. Vincent. And someone, a woman that he didn’t know dressed in white, walking towards him.
“Hello” she said, and then Vincent was right beside him taking his hand. A nurse, the woman must be a nurse. She lifted a straw to his lips and he sipped, icy cold water sliding across the rawness of his throat.
Memory came back, an explanation for the pain, and he blinked at Vincent. “Baby?”
Vincent nodded. “Baby is here, see?” and he pointed at an enclosed humidicrib across the room. Noah could see a bundle in it, a tiny bundle.
The baby must be alright. If it had died, they surely wouldn’t have left it in the room with him. Would they?
“Baby?’ Noah repeated, and tears started.
“Baby is just fine.” Vincent looked pleadingly at the nurse, and the nurse moved away and came back a moment later with a bundle in her arms.
“Here’s your baby,” she said.
Vincent pushed controls on the handset beside the bed and the bed whirred, the back beginning to inch upright.
Pain swamped Noah’s abdomen at the movement, but he ignored it, keeping his eyes fixed on the blanket wrapped shape in the nurse’s arms, holding his own arms out.
Baby was asleep, eyes peacefully shut, dark hair sticking out from under a knitted cap, and Vincent sat on the bed beside Noah and held a thin clear tube near the baby’s face. “Baby still needs some oxygen,” he explained, and Noah nodded.
Noah touched the baby’s face with a fingertip, tracing its dark wings of brows and tiny cheek, and the baby moved restlessly. When he lifted his finger away, the tip was sticky and he looked at the nurse, puzzled.
“We don’t wash babies for about 48 hours. That’s the vernix that all babies are covered with at birth. It helps stop skin infections if we leave it on.”
>
Noah nodded. Now he could remember reading about vernix, he could remember all sorts of things, between the waves of pain. Like Vincent singing, and Sandra leaning over him. And now he was holding his baby.
The baby’s hair was sticky and clumped too, under the cap, but he could see it was the same color as his own and he pulled the top of the blanket open and looked at the tiny neck and shoulders. “Baby’s so small.”
Vincent nodded, his hand stroking across Noah’s arm where it held the baby. “Just over 5 pounds,” Vincent said. “It’s got some catching up to do. Sophie’s gone home to get some sleep, but she had a brief hold first. And Ella has brought Ben in. He just stared at the baby through the plastic and cried. I’ve rung Tami and my family too. My mom is flying in tomorrow if she can get a flight.”
The nurse moved away, and Vincent leant forward. “Sandra hasn’t given you the methotrexate yet,” he said quietly. “She thought you might want to try feeding the baby yourself, even if it was just once. Once she’s given it to you, it won’t be an option.”
Noah blinked at Vincent. “Feed the baby?” He shook his head. “No, I can’t.” He felt abhorrence at the thought. “No.”
Vincent nodded. “I just thought you might like the chance to try it, seeing as this is never going to happen again.”
Noah looked down at the baby in his arms and touched its cheek again. It moved its head, turning towards his finger, opening its mouth silently. Strange feelings were joining the pain and revulsion; protectiveness and love and nurturing, and a sudden inexplicable need to give his baby everything he could. The nurturing won. He nodded slowly, his eyes darting up at Vincent. “I’ve changed my mind. But I don’t want anyone else in the room apart from you. And you’re never to tell anyone. Promise?”
“Only if I can tell baby, if baby ever asks,” he replied, his hand gently touching the knitted cap, whilst resting on Noah’s arm.
Noah met Vincent’s eyes and smiled. “I forgot there’s three of us now. Yes, baby shall know.”
Vincent stood up and went over to where the nurse was flicking through charts. “We’d like to be alone for the first feed.”
The nurse nodded and stood up. “I’ll be right outside if you need me. Do you know how to attach a baby to the breast?”
“My first child fed for three years, I’ve seen this innumerable times,” Vincent assured her, and the nurse stacked the charts and went out of the room.
Noah watched Vincent draw the blinds then look regretfully at his camera. “One photo,” Noah said. “For the baby.”
Vincent picked up his camera and sat it on the bed. “Are you sure? I hadn’t thought you’d want any photos at all.”
Noah shook his head. “No, I’m not sure, but just for this moment, I’m going to take this as far as it goes.” He looked down at the baby in his arms. “What do I do?” he asked nervously. “I have no idea what to do.”
Vincent leant over and pulled the baby’s blankets open further, so the cool air roused the tiny infant, and stroked its cheek. “See, that’s all you need to do to wake them.” He took the baby from Noah’s arms and said, “See if you can pull your gown up or off.”
The baby was beginning to cry, and Noah pulled at his gown and found it opened up the front, presumably for feeding. His teeth gritted momentarily when it felt like someone stuck a hot skewer through his belly as he moved. His breasts were full and shiny in the bedside light, nipples dark and thick, and he looked up at Vincent. “What now?”
Vincent placed the baby in Noah’s arms and guided it onto its side, so its face was pressed against Noah’s breast, oxygen tube close to its mouth. His hands were steady as he moved the baby’s head back a little, giving it room to breathe.
Noah said, “Oh!” very suddenly when baby opened its mouth wide and butted its head forward against his nipple, then his nipple disappeared into the baby’s mouth.
He was exhilarated for a moment, then panicked, then exhilarated again. He had been unhappy about his breasts growing through the pregnancy, it had just seemed the final ignominy on top of all the other indignities, but there was a feeling of complete ‘rightness’ about the baby suckling there now.
When Noah tore his eyes away from the way the baby’s jaw moved and looked at Vincent, Vincent had tears streaming down his face.
Noah thought he knew about intimacy, thought he knew about sharing his body with other people, thought that Vincent had already taken him to all the places there were to go, but there was a submission in giving the baby his breast that he had never felt before.
Vincent leant forward across the baby to kiss Noah’s cheek and Noah’s face was wet with Vincent’s tears when he pulled back.
Noah said, “Jesus, Vincent. I can feel it.” He could. The heat that he had come to know as part of arousal was burning through both of his breasts too, spreading with inevitability through him until something let go and the baby began gulping.
“Vincent!” Noah gasped, and he could hear the panic in his voice.
Vincent’s hands were soothing on his neck and shoulders. “It’s ok, it’s supposed to feel like that.”
“But it’s like sex!”
“Yeah, that’s what Ella reckoned too.” Vincent’s voice was calm. “You ready for me to take a photo?”
Noah nodded, his eyes fixed on the way the baby’s jaw was moving as it swallowed. He heard the click, and then the thud of Vincent putting the camera down on the bedside table. Some time later, Vincent gently said, “Baby’s looking sleepy, how about we swap sides now? Let me do this bit or you’ll hurt yourself.” Noah nodded mutely, the whole process bewildering him.
Vincent slid his little finger into the side of the baby’s mouth and Noah’s nipple popped out, strangely flattened now. “Wow,” was all Noah could say.
Vincent turned the baby over and settled it against Noah’s other breast, oxygen tube in place, and it attached itself to the breast smoothly. “When will we find out if it’s a girl or a boy?” Noah asked.
“Rhian is coming in tomorrow morning to check the baby over.” Vincent leant his face close to Noah’s. “I’ve changed its diaper, and it looks like a girl to me.”
“Really? A girl?” Noah looked down again at the baby, suckling away at his breast. “A girl,” he said, satisfaction in his voice.
The baby stopped sucking slowly, and Vincent popped the nipple out with his little finger again, then went to get the nurse who was leaning against the door outside, looking bored.
“Did all go well?” she asked as she came back in. Noah nodded and she took the baby out of his arms. “I need to check baby’s temperature and pulse. You’ll be able to hold baby again later, I promise.”
Vincent had pulled an ordinary chair up against Noah’s bed and was holding his hand, stroking the back of it when Sandra pushed the door to the room open. She shooed the nurse out of the room, smiled at Noah, bent over the humidicrib to check the baby and flick her eyes over the charts there, then sat down on the other side of Noah’s bed.
“Congratulations,” she said. “Baby is doing really well. I’d thought it would have to be in intensive care for a few hours, but it’s breathing beautifully by itself. We’ll stop monitoring it so closely at 24 hours. Are you in much pain?”
Noah nodded. “Yeah. My belly hurts like hell, especially if I try and move. This is worse than a spinal injury.”
Sandra smiled at him. “You can have some morphine now then. I didn’t order any for you before because I thought you’d want to wake up and hold your baby as soon as possible. Now you have, I can treat the pain aggressively. The chart said you fed the baby too. How was that?”
Noah’s eyes went across the room to the crib. “Amazing.”
“I really need to give you methotrexate now to kill the placenta off. You can’t breastfeed for eight weeks after these doses. If you are committed to breastfeeding, it’s possible to express for those eight weeks to keep your supply going, ready for the baby to feed later. Do you want to
do that?”
Noah looked at the baby again. “No. I’m glad I tried it this once, just to find out what it was like, but in eight weeks I’m hoping I’ll be male again.”
Sandra patted his leg. “You should be. I removed all the ovarian material, the fallopian tube and the vagina, and repaired the fistula. Once the methotrexate works and the placenta has stopped producing HCG, you’ll cross back over to male quite quickly, hopefully within eight weeks. Rhian will be seeing you for that time to supervise everything, so she’ll be able to give you a closer idea of what’ll happen. I can tell you that anatomically you are male.”
Relief overwhelmed Noah. He had been living in an alien body for six months, and now he had his own back.
Sandra squeezed his thigh. “Good feeling, is it?” and he nodded.
“Methotrexate is crap stuff to take. It might make you queasy, upset your bowels, make you feel ghastly. You won’t go home from here until the worst of the side effects are over. There is one good side effect, it’s an excellent anti inflammatory, so your back should feel great. No receptive anal sex for six weeks, to let the fistula repair heal, no matter how good your back feels. I’ll also give you some bromocriptine mesylate too, to suppress milk production. Anything you want to ask?”
“Can I have some morphine now?”
Sandra laughed. “Sure, and tomorrow, when you don’t feel like somebody has just ripped your belly open and removed a baby and some organs, you can ask me questions.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Noah woke from his morphine induced fog when Rhian dropped a large basket of stuff down on his bedside table, and grinned at him. “It’s all tins or vac-pacs of food, like salmon and brie, and beer, for in a few days time when you’re up to eating again.”
She grinned at Vincent too as he struggled awake in the armchair in the corner. “’Morning to you both.” She spied the humidicrib and leant over it. “All, to all of you. Now, let’s have a look at baby for you.”
The Omega's Dearest Baby Page 7
