Just Give Me a Reason

by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  Tony moves to stand by my head, like he’s done this a dozen times before. Which of course he has. He’s been the supportive husband and father two times over, and he is far more experienced at this than I am. It’s a comfort, knowing that no matter how alien this process is to me, it’s familiar to him.

  “You’re going to feel the cold gel,” Dr. Hamilton says, “and then a little bit of pressure.”

  I close my eyes while she pokes around, and I take Tony’s hand.

  Later I will think about how much I’m giving in and relying on him right now. He’s offering his quiet support and he’s not complaining, but there’s no denying that it’s weird for him to be here. Whatever it is that we agreed to this week, it surely didn’t include holding hands while a doctor investigated my cervix.

  “You’re not dilated,” she says, withdrawing her gloved hand. “But you are somewhat effaced, which means your cervix is thinning. That’s not necessarily a sign of trouble. It can start happening at this stage of pregnancy. But we definitely want to check you again in an hour or two and see if things have advanced at all.” She takes her gloves off, steps on the pedal to open the metal trash can lid, and goes to the sink to wash up. “What we’re going to do is hook you up to a fetal monitor, okay? And see if we can chart these contractions and find out what’s going on.”

  An assistant comes in with a pink plastic pitcher of ice water and hands me a cup with a straw. Then she ties a band around my waist. Immediately, I hear the baby’s heartbeat, loud and fast.

  “Is that normal?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” the doctor says. “Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”

  I watch a neon-green point spool out horizontally on the monitor screen, like a line graph. “It’s a boy.”

  She smiles. “Well, he sounds great. Let’s just keep you on the monitor for an hour or so and take it from there. In the meantime, we’re going to get you an IV and give you some fluids. Sound good?”

  “Sure,” I say. Her chipper demeanor reassures me, although I suppose it’s possible that it’s a front to keep me calm. I feel my belly tightening again, and reach for Tony’s hand. The doctor watches the monitor, which shows the green line spiking upward jaggedly as the tension intensifies, and then sinking back downward as it dissipates. Its persistent beep and hum add to the overall feeling that something is wrong.

  “Yep,” she says, nodding. “That’s a contraction, all right.”

  “It is?” I sit up straighter. “Is that…what does that mean?”

  She shakes her head. “We don’t know yet. But we’re going to keep you here for a bit and see if we can find out. First thing, we’ll get you a bed. Then we’ll give you those fluids and see if that makes things calmer.”

  I take a deep breath. “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Well.” She adjusts the stethoscope around her neck. “The next step would be to admit you and monitor you, probably overnight, and then possibly set you up with some medication to deter labor, if that’s what’s happening.”

  Tony rubs a palm over my forearm, watching my face carefully. He can see the growing fear there, and I don’t know if that’s a comfort or if it scares me more. “Beth has a midwife,” he says. “She’ll be coming by soon, I think.”

  “Right,” the doctor says, nodding. “They wrote that down at intake. I’ve known Megan a long time. Good choice.”

  She smiles reassuringly and moves toward the door. “I’ll be back in about an hour to check on you, okay? Just try to relax. We’ll see what’s what soon enough.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. My voice sounds weak, and that bothers me. I want to be strong right now. To be strong for Micah. But I feel less sure of myself with each minute that passes here.

  The nurse comes back in and detaches the fetal monitor, and then takes me by wheelchair to a slightly larger room with a bed and bathroom in it. Once I’m reattached to the machine and settled into bed, she steps out to the hallway and returns with a moving metal tray. On it, she’s set up a wide rubber band, some blue latex gloves, a few alcohol wipes, and a needle. She ties the band around my arm and feels for a vein, but has trouble finding one big enough for the IV.

  “We usually do it here,” she says, pointing to the inside of my elbow. “But I’m thinking we’ll need to go with your hand.”

  “My—?” I begin, and she turns my arm over and points to a vein right below my knuckles.

  She preps the area with alcohol and then carefully inserts the needle. I turn my face toward Tony and shut my eyes, and when I open them she is connecting a tube to the needle and attaching that to an IV bag hung from a rack beside the bed.

  “This is just water with electrolytes, honey. I’ll be back when this one is all done, and give you a new bag, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Looks like you’ll be in good hands while I’m gone.” She eyes Tony up and down and snaps off her latex gloves. “Although he’s the one that got you into this mess, so I don’t know. Not that you minded, from the looks of him.” She laughs to herself and wheels the cart out of the room.

  “I guess you’re the father of my baby now,” I say, hoping a joke will take the weirdness out of the room.

  Tony smiles, a little wistfully, and strokes a hand over my hair. “Wouldn’t be the worst job in the world.”

  My heart squeezes unexpectedly at that, but I don’t have time to contemplate it before another contraction stirs the monitor.

  Tony stands at my side, watching the green line inch up at an angle and then come back down, making a jagged triangle shape on the screen. When it’s over, he offers to go get a deck of cards and some magazines to pass the time. “You must be hungry, too. Maybe I can get us a couple egg sandwiches? And some hot tea?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Am I allowed to eat?”

  “I’ll check on my way out,” he tells me, “but I don’t see why not. Why don’t you try to close your eyes for a few minutes while I’m gone?”

  “Okay. Thank you, Tony. Really. For…for everything.”

  “Of course.” He kisses my cheek, gently, and leaves the room.

  I wanted to ask the doctor, earlier, if sex with Tony brought the contractions on. But I stopped myself. I don’t want to go down the road of blaming us. There’s no reason why a healthy pregnant woman shouldn’t be enjoying herself, and I had no previous indication that anything like this could happen. If I’m advised to avoid sex now, I can do that. But I refuse to feel guilty for what happened with Tony.

  What I do feel, frankly, is shaken. Because not only did he get inside me in every possible way last night, he’s here with me now. Steadfast and patient, and kind as ever. He stood in the room while I put on a hospital gown, for God’s sake. It’s an intimacy I don’t know what to do with.

  If Holly were home, she’d be the one by my side today. Or my mother. And it would be so much simpler.

  I thought about calling them in the car on the way to the hospital, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to interrupt their vacations until I know whether this is really an emergency. For all I know, it could still be Braxton Hicks contractions, and I’m causing a fuss over nothing.

  I suppose I could ask another friend to come sit here with me and send Tony away. But when I scroll through my mental Rolodex, there’s no one I want to ask.

  No one, that is, who I want to be here more than Tony. I can’t think at the moment about whether that’s right or wrong. I’m scared, and I want him with me.

  Everyone is trying to be reassuring, but I’ve read about premature babies, and I know it’s a possibility that Micah could be born early. It does happen, and there isn’t always a clear reason for it. My pregnancy book said that babies born as young as twenty-five weeks have survived out of the womb, and I celebrated that milestone with great relief. But preemies are tiny. Their brains and lungs aren’t developed yet, and they struggle through all sorts of delays. Some stay in the hospital for month
s before they’re allowed to go home.

  I don’t want that for Micah. I want him to be born healthy, to have a fighting chance.

  I don’t even have his room set up yet. The baby shower is more than a month away. I don’t think I own a single diaper.

  What am I going to do if he’s born now? If he’s born today?

  I can’t even move in bed with the fetal monitor belt strapped around my middle and my hand connected by tubes to the IV rack. I know these interventions are for the sake of the baby, but they’re making me feel like it’s the hospital itself keeping Micah alive, not me. Not my body, which carried him safely for twenty-nine weeks.

  Tony walks back into the room carrying a brown paper bag and a sheaf of magazines. He takes one look at my face and drops everything down on the counter.

  “What is it?”

  I start to cry then—tightly, shaking my head—and he doesn’t even hesitate. He comes around the side without the IV and climbs right into the bed with me.

  “I’m sorry, Beth,” he says. “This really sucks.”

  I know that if Tony weren’t here right now, I would have gotten myself to the hospital somehow. I would have waited here, with doctors and nurses coming in and out of my room, with tubes and wires sticking out of me, and I would have managed. I would have been scared as hell for my baby, but I know I could have counted on myself to handle it alone.

  So when Tony puts his arms around me, I don’t turn to him because I am collapsing. Even in this cold, clinical place, I still know myself. I’m not beaten yet.

  I turn to Tony because I’m not a fucking idiot. He is a good, solid man. And if he’s offering me support, I’m going to be woman enough to accept it.

  I let him hold me for several long minutes, until I feel better.

  Then we eat some goddamn egg sandwiches.

  —

  An hour later, my midwife knocks on the door. Her eyes widen a little when she sees Tony sitting beside my bed, but she comes straight in, gives me a hug, and introduces herself to him.

  If I had to guess, I’d say that Megan was about fifty years old. Her red hair is short, her ears are pierced multiple times, and her right forearm is beautifully tattooed with a herd of delicately wrought elephants.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks me, and pulls up a second chair.

  I wrinkle my brow. “Is it possible to feel really grateful for medical intervention and really resentful of it at the same time?”

  Megan laughs a little too hard. “Oh, honey. You said a mouthful.” Her eyes go to the printout the fetal monitor has been slowly generating. “Mind if I take a look at this?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  She glances through the scroll and nods thoughtfully. Then she asks her own series of questions—warmer, somehow, than those of the hospital staff, but no less thorough.

  “Dr. Hamilton examined you, right? She said you weren’t dilating significantly, and I’m going to take her word for that and not make you go through another exam. She’ll probably do another one soon anyway, to see if anything’s changed.”

  Megan pulls her seat a little closer. “My guess is they’ll recommend admitting you overnight, Beth. You’re still contracting pretty regularly. I mean, it’s seven minutes in between and then five minutes and then six minutes, so it’s erratic, but hydration isn’t stopping them entirely. So they’ll probably give you another couple hours at most before they start recommending medication to slow labor.”

  “What kind of medication?” I ask.

  “Well, there are a couple different kinds, but one of them is magnesium sulfate. Sometimes you take it and the contractions go away completely, but maybe they would have gone away on their own; we don’t know. Other times you take it and go into full-on labor anyway. That’s why they also usually want to give you a steroid, a pretty strong one, to help develop the baby’s lungs, just in case.”

  “Do you…do you think I should do it? I mean, go along with all that?”

  Megan sighs. “Well, I’m always going to recommend going the least medical route, you know that. You’re the mother, it’s your body, and you should be trusted to handle as much of your labor as possible on your own. In this case, though, if the contractions continue to advance, ten-plus weeks out from your due date? I mean…I’d do what I could to try to keep the baby in the oven for as long as you can. I can give you some herbal supplements on top of what they give you here, and they’ll definitely prescribe bed rest, which I’d strongly support.”

  “Bed rest? What does that mean?”

  Tony stirs at my side.

  “It means very limited mobility, until you get within striking range of full term. At least thirty-seven weeks.”

  I take a deep breath. “Does that mean no work?”

  “It could.” Megan nods. “But let’s see if we can get your contractions under control first, okay? We’ll know more once you’ve been monitored for a couple more hours.”

  “I’ll have to…I’ll need to tell the store owner. She’ll be…”

  Megan rests a warm hand on my arm. I look down at the comforting row of elephants tattooed on her skin. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, okay? I just wanted to give you the lowdown on possibilities over the next few hours. For now, the best thing you can do is rest, drink water, and distract yourself so you don’t go bonkers in here waiting.”

  She looks up at Tony. “I see you brought a deck of cards. Good man. Maybe a game is in order?”

  Tony smiles warmly. “Definitely.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She walks toward the door, and while Tony is bent over the tray shuffling cards, she mouths, He’s hot. Then she winks and steps out into the hallway.

  —

  The next few hours pass by slowly. The fetal monitor grinds out sheet after sheet of graphed contractions, which don’t progress, but don’t stop, either. Dr. Hamilton and Megan agree that I should go forward with the interventions to deter labor, including the steroid for Micah’s lungs. I let them give me the medications.

  Eventually, I decide to call my mom and Holly. As predicted, they both freak out and want to cut their vacations short, but my mom is simply too far away to make that feasible. The soonest she could get home would be Friday, two days away. Holly sets to work booking a flight for this evening, even though I try to assure her there’s nothing she can do here, but she refuses to be talked out of it.

  “Tony is with you, right, until I get there?” Holly confirms. “He’s not leaving?”

  He’s right beside me, as he has been all day. He took out his contacts about an hour ago, and now he’s wearing the world’s most ridiculously cute, dark-framed glasses. He’s played about two dozen games of Gin Rummy over the course of the morning and afternoon, and read me today’s entire New York Times, cover to cover.

  “No,” I say. “He’s not leaving.”

  “These Lopez men,” Holly says. “Not too shabby, are they?”

  I look at Tony. He’s leaning back against the chair, eyes closed. He must be exhausted. But he’s still here. “No,” I agree. “Not too shabby at all.”

  Chapter 13

  Tony

  I settle in for a night at the hospital with Beth, stretched out the best I can in the chair beside her bed. Whether because of the medication they’ve given her or because they wore off on their own, her contractions have finally slowed. They’re happening once an hour or two now, and she’s been able to sleep for a little while.

  Once she’s dozing, I sneak out to the hallway to call Alexa, just to run the treatment plan by her and see what she thinks.

  Even in my most hurt and angry moments, I’ve never stopped being proud of what Alexa has accomplished as a doctor. She is at the top of her field in New York City and is justifiably celebrated by the women she treats. I trust her advice.

  When she picks up the phone, she’s not surprised to hear from me. I sent a text earlier to let her know why I was missing my daily phone call with t
he girls, and to ask her to kiss them good night for me.

  “They said to tell you sweet dreams,” she says now. “And to remember to brush your teeth.”

  That makes me laugh. “I made them Admirals in Charge of Teeth-brushing last week, did they tell you that? We had a whole ceremony.”

  “I heard all about it,” Alexa says, and I hear the smile in her voice. “They chased Levi around the apartment with the toothpaste.”

  We both go silent for a moment. It’s still awkward to talk about Levi, all this time later. Technically, he is the guy who broke up my marriage. But he’s also the guy who loves—truly—the mother of my children. And the girls adore him. So as much as I sometimes want to punch him in the face, it’s my job to man up and accept that he’s in our lives now. To his credit, he makes that easier by consistently trying to forge a working relationship with me.

  Alexa clears her throat. “So Beth is…Ray’s girlfriend’s friend?”

  “Actually, you know what?” I tell her. “Ray proposed to Holly, so she’s his fiancée now.”

  “What?” Alexa almost yells. “Holy crap, Tony! That’s amazing. I’m so happy for him! Please tell him congratulations for me, okay? Wow, I…”

  She trails off, and I hear the unspoken sadness in her voice. Not so long ago, she would have been one of the first to hear information like this. I know she still cares about my family—that she considers them, in so many ways, her own family. She was with us, after all, for sixteen years.

  “I’ll tell him,” I assure her. “Of course. He’ll be so glad you know. You always were like a sister to him.”

  She pauses for a long moment, and then she sighs. “It’s still so weird sometimes, isn’t it? I don’t know what the relationships are anymore.”