by M. E. Carter
The nurse nods and hooks up a bag to the IV pole next to the bed.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, okay?”
Tiff nods again, resting back against the pillow with her eyes closed. It’s short-lived though. Within seconds, she’s squeezing my hand and moaning as another contraction hits.
Another eight hours. Another one centimeter dilated. Almost. I may be rounding up out of my own feeling of desperation. This entire experience is not at all like I expected. Not that I knew what was supposed to happen. Sure, we’d taken a birthing class one Saturday, but that was months ago when our schedules allowed us both to be there. And it never told us what would happen if Tiffany’s body refused to do what it should.
At least Tiffany’s sleeping now. About four hours after the Pitocin began, she started crying, saying she couldn’t do it anymore. She’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours and had been in some form of labor for over half of it. Plus, once the drugs kicked in, her contractions went from being painful to downright excruciating. It didn’t take much convincing for her to finally decide to have the epidural. But it did take my Mam physically moving me out of the way to help her through all her fears—fear of a needle in her spine, fear of the drugs hurting the baby, fear of not being strong enough to be a good mom.
That one took me by surprise. It never occurred to me that my wife, the strongest woman I know, would be afraid of being a bad mom. Mam later explained to me that it was a common fear among first time moms and not one I could ever understand. I have no idea what she meant by that, but I suppose it proved her point.
Sitting down next to me on the blue vinyl couch, my father hands me the largest cup of coffee I’ve ever seen. Eyeing it before taking a sip, I can’t help but question him about it. “Where did you get a cup of coffee this size?”
“Starbucks,” he responds, like he didn’t just say the last thing I expected to hear. “It’s the only place ye can get a trente.”
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “How do you know they have trentes?”
“Everyone knows they have trentes.”
Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but I’m so confused. “You don’t like Starbucks, Da. It’s a chain and according to you, they help contribute to the rising cost of living and ultimate demise of the state of the economy.”
He shrugs like I’m not saying anything he doesn’t already know. “I made an exception this time. Figured ye need a bigger caffeine boost than normal and hospital coffee is never good. Did ye get any sleep overnight?”
I lean back next to him and stretch my legs out. My back aches, and I’m beyond exhausted, but, except for closing my eyes, I haven’t slept at all.
“I can’t. I’m wiped, but it’s like this hum running through my body, that’s keeping me awake.”
“That’d be the adrenaline. Happened to me too, when yer mam gave birth te you.”
“Really?” I turn to look at him. We’ve never really talked about when I was born. I know the basics—my birthday, what city we were in, that kind of thing.
“Of course. Yer mam was radiant before she had ye. Just lovely. She loved being pregnant. Said she never felt better in her life. But then when it was time for ye to get here—scariest day of me life.”
“How come?”
He looks at me with sympathy. “I was helpless. It was me job to provide for her and take care of her. But I couldn’t take away the pain. I couldn’t make it better and I didn’t like that.”
“Yeah.” I nod in understanding. “You know I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours, not even a nap after practice, and I don’t think I could sleep if I tried. I’m afraid of not being coherent if something happens.”
Da pats me on the leg in sympathy. He gets it. “I understand, boyo, but yer not going to be good to anyone if ye don’t have any rest. Once yer leanbh gets here, there won’t be any sleeping anymore.”
I chuckle slightly and rub my hand down my face. He’s right. I know he is. That doesn’t mean I can do anything about it. But, of course, my Da has a plan.
“Now that yer mam is at home gettin’ some rest, I’ll be here with ye for a while. Why don’t ye lie down on this lovely couch,” he says it sarcastically, running his hand over the vinyl that will probably stick to my skin. “I’ll keep an eye on Tiffany. Make sure she’s okay. If anything changes or they need ye, I’ll wake ye.”
There are only two people in the world besides Tiffany and me that I trust with my son’s life. They’ve been taking shifts sitting with us in this room while we trudge through what is arguably the biggest, most life-changing day of our lives. Knowing my Da is here and ready to take over for me, my body suddenly relaxes, and a nap sounds perfect.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Yeah I think I might be able to sleep for a little bit.”
Putting my coffee down on the rolling table, my Da hands me the pillow and blanket someone brought in overnight, then pats me on the back and moves to the bedside chair, ready to keep watch over my family.
That picture is the last thing I see as I curl up on the couch and finally shut my eyes.
A low murmuring pulls me from sleep. I know it’s only been a couple hours, but I feel so much better than I did. Damn that epidural for being as amazing as everyone said it would be.
Peeling my eyes open, I roll slightly onto my back to see Dr. Hermann and Ryan chatting like old friends. A few seconds of eavesdropping and I finally catch the source of their newfound connection—Ireland. Apparently, Dr. Hermann spent a summer backpacking through Europe and caught a couple games when Ryan was in his prime and playing in front of his hometown fans. I’m sure the tales are tall right now, but at least their relaxed chatter means nothing wrong is happening on my side of the room.
Glancing around, I finally catch sight of my husband who is sleeping soundly. I’m glad to see him getting some rest. He’s been trying so hard to be strong for me. It’s not gone unnoticed. But at last count he’d been awake for thirty hours. It was wearing on him.
“Ah, iníon sa dlí, yer awake.”
Ryan steps toward me and kisses me quickly on the forehead. He’s never done that before, but I guess I’ve never been giving birth to his grandchild either.
“How are you feeling, Tiffany?” Dr. Hermann washes his hands and snaps some gloves on. As nice as the overnight doctor was, he’s been with me from the beginning, so I’m glad he’s here now.
“I’d like to say I feel a little better since I got some sleep, but really it just took the edge off.”
He taps my legs, silently telling me to bend my knees so he can check my progress. I’ve been doing this for eighteen hours. I know the drill at this point.
“Wait!” Ryan exclaims. “Do I need to leave before ye stick yer hand, uh, there?”
I stifle a laugh when Dr. Hermann stops and looks at me to decide. Patting Ryan’s arm, I say, “It’s okay. Just stand right here at my head and it’ll be fine.”
Dr. Hermann takes that as his cue to continue with his exam. I don’t even flinch this time. That’s the one weird thing I’ve learned about labor. The pain is so intense for so long, nothing else hurts. Not needles. Not people shoving their fingers in your vagina. I could probably have a kidney removed right now and barely feel it. My pain receptors are underwhelmed with anything other than contractions.
From his sigh as he takes off his gloves, I already know he doesn’t have good news.
“Just tell me,” I blurt out.
“I’m starting to get concerned.” Those four little words have my breathing picking up and my heart beating just a little faster. “You’ve been in labor for over eighteen hours, on Pitocin for ten of it, and you’re only a little over three-centimeters dilated.”
“But it’s working though, right? I’m still moving the right direction?” I feel Ryan’s hand on my shoulder as a sense of panic starts to set in.
“Yes, but not fast enough. That and I’ve been watching your blood pressure begin to rise.” He sits on the edge o
f my bed and I can already tell he’s trying to soften the blow of whatever he’s about to say. “I know it’s not what you wanted, but we really need to start considering a C-section.”
No. No, no, no. I don’t want a C-section. I’m supposed to have Rowen sitting behind me, helping me hold up my legs while I push our baby out into the world. I’m not supposed to be strapped to a table while he’s cut out.
My squeeze my eyes shut, trying hard not to cry. “Do we have to?”
“We’re not at a critical level yet,” he answers. “The baby isn’t in distress. You aren’t in distress. But from everything that’s happening, your progress appears to be slowing down, not increasing.”
I barely notice Ryan leave my side, barely register him saying, “Rowen. Mack, ye need to wake. Yer wife needs ye,” until Rowen is suddenly at my side, wide-eyed and looking frantic with his hair sticking up at all ends.
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
“Nothin’s wrong yet, Mack,” Ryan answers. “There’s just some decisions to make that ye need te be part of.”
Dr. Hermann gives Rowen the rundown while he climbs next to me on the bed and puts his arm around me. They discuss different options while I let the tears flow, hiding my face in the safety of Rowen’s shirt. I’ve been in an extremely vulnerable position for months. It’s worse than having people see me cry.
“Tiffany.” Rowen rests his forehead on the top of my head, running his hand up and down my arm. “Babe. I think we need to consider this.”
A sniff is my only response. I don’t know why I’m surprised by this. My entire pregnancy has been one nightmare after another. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. This is something I didn’t plan for and it pisses me off.
I’ve always subscribed to the belief that it’s “my body, my choice” in almost everything. That doesn’t just include being pro-choice, it includes my decisions about sex, and my job. I’ve always been that way. But no one tells you that when you have a baby, sometimes you don’t get a choice.
I know Dr. Hermann is letting me weigh the options. I know that if I said no, he’d let me continue on and we’d all pray for a miracle. I know technically it’s my choice, but really, it’s not. This baby has all the control over my body in this situation, and he’s not choosing what I want. It pisses me off that he’s taking away my control. And it’s pissing me off that I’m blaming him for my misery and he’s not even born yet. If this is how I’m going to feel every time he does something that inconveniences me, I’m already on track to be the world’s worst mother.
“I feel like I’m failing him,” I whisper so no one but Rowen can hear me.
I can practically feel his surprise when he shifts, situating us face-to-face. Thankfully, my doctor and my father-in-law have started chatting again, so Rowen and I can have some privacy. “Tiffany, this is just a change in the play. You of all people know how easily it can happen. I know this isn’t soccer, but it’s not that different. We go into every match with a plan, but sometimes it doesn’t go like we expected. There’s an injury or a new goalie.” I smirk at his reference to the issues the team had early in the season. “The objective is always the same, but how we get there doesn’t matter as long as we do. It’s the same thing here. It doesn’t matter how he gets here as much as it matters that it happens safely for both of you.”
I sniff again, but my tears have all but dried up. “We’ve been deflected.”
He nods and smiles at me. “Exactly. It’s a change of play. But in the end, when we’re holding him and taking care of him, we’ll forget about everything except that we won.”
I chuckle lightly. “You realize this is the worst analogy ever.”
He smiles back, knowing I’m okay with moving forward now. “But did it work?”
“Yeah. I’m scared though.”
He rests his forehead on mine and closes his eyes. “Me too.”
Taking a moment to pull myself together, I finally take a deep breath and turn to Dr. Hermann. “Okay. I understand. I really don’t want a C-section, but I would rather have a healthy baby even more. Plus, with the way this pregnancy has gone from the beginning, I have no doubt it could get much worse if we aren’t conservative with this.”
“I really do think you’re making the right choice,” Dr. Hermann agrees. “I don’t like doing C-sections if I can help it. Hell, I didn’t want my own son to be born that way. But he was, and he was healthy, and that was all that mattered. I want that for your son too.”
“I know.” And I do. He’s never given me any reason to think otherwise. “What happens now?”
“Now you get to relax.” He pats my leg and stands up, presumably to get ready. The nurse who has been monitoring also seems to be moving at a faster pace than before. “First, we’re going to check to see if there is an operating room available, but I assume that’s already been done?” he asks the nurse.
She nods. “Just did. I have you in OR 3 in thirty minutes.”
“Well there ya go.” Dr. Hermann smiles like everything is already lining up nicely. “We’ll start getting you prepped and in half an hour, we’ll roll you into the OR so we can meet your baby.”
“I get te go with her, right?” He’s been good at covering it, but I know full well Rowen’s nerves have just kicked in by the accent bleeding through.
“Absolutely.” There’s no hesitation at all in Dr. Hermann’s words. “We’ll get her situated in the OR first while you’re getting dressed in scrubs. Then we’ll bring you in before we begin. If you have a camera, bring it with you.”
Rowen nods, and I can almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. He’s nervous and excited, but I know he’s feeling as overwhelmed as I am.
“I’ll be back in a bit to get you.” He turns tail and leaves the room to do whatever doctors do in a situation like this.
Taking a deep breath, I try to focus my thoughts. I wish there was something I needed to do at this point, but really, it’s all done. The nursery is ready to go. Rowen can pick up the car seat before we leave in a few days. HR already has the paperwork in motion for my maternity leave. There is literally nothing for me to do but sit and wait. It sucks.
“I’m gonna go ring yer mam,” Ryan suddenly says. I forgot he was even here. “She’ll want te be here.”
Rowen nods in understanding. “Do ye want to call your mam too?”
Part of me wants to, just because I feel like I’m in freak-out mode, but the other part knows there is a real possibility she’ll go into hysterics. “Let’s wait. I think it would be better for her be excited after the fact than have to wait while I’m having major surgery.”
“Good point.”
He goes silent again, lost in his own thoughts, and it hits me that I’ve never asked him how he feels about all this. Not since the day we found out I was pregnant.
“Hey.” I nudge him with my shoulder.
“Hmm.” He looks over at me, almost like he forgot I was next to him for a moment.
“How are you feeling about all this?”
He smiles shyly and looks down at his lap. “I’m terrified.”
“Why?”
“You’re my best friend and you’re about to have major surgery. I know rationally that nothing bad is going to happen, but it just makes me really… really…”
“Anxious.”
“Exactly.” He looks back over at me with what can only be described as love in his eyes. For just this one moment, it’s just the two of us against the world again. It makes me feel like we can get through anything.
Wrapping my arms around him, there’s nothing I can say. I’m not a surgeon. I’ve never done this before. All I can do is try to stay calm and trust that we’re exactly where we need to be, and things are exactly how they should be. It’s not something I’ve felt for a really long time, but something about everyday life being put on the back burner to power through this together makes me feel strong.
“I love you, Rookie.”
He hol
ds me tighter and murmurs, “I love you too.”
We stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms for as long as we can, a family of two for the last time.
I have dreamed about this day for months. Thought about every scenario on how it could happen. Planned for any situation. Prepared myself in every possible way.
Except this one.
Not one part of me anticipated I’d be standing in the hallway of the hospital wearing drab green scrubs with a matching surgical cap, waiting to join my wife in an operating room. And yet here I am, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.
It’s not just the operation. Yes, that is my immediate concern. As much as I like Dr. Hermann, he’s getting ready to cut Tiffany open and pull our son out through a gaping wound. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but it basically boils down to that, and it’s scary. What if he cuts the wrong part and he can’t stop the bleeding? What if he accidentally cuts my child? What if she gets a major infection? The horrific possibilities are terrifying.
Taking a breath to refocus my thoughts, I try to remember all the positives. Tiffany won’t be struggling through labor anymore, and our son will be here.
Our son.
Mo mhac.
Even the overwhelming scent of antiseptic can’t stop the smile that crosses my face at the thought of seeing him for the first time. I can’t wait. More than I’ve dreamed about his birth, I’ve dreamed about him in general. What will he be like? Will he like playing soccer or will he be more artistic? Will he be a people-watcher like me or the life of the party like his mam? Will he have my eyes and his mother’s hair? Will he need exorbitant amounts of sunscreen like I do?
Actually, I know the answer to that last one and make a mental note to start buying SPF 70+. With my genes, it’s inevitable he’ll turn into a lobster any time he goes outside if we’re not careful.
“Mr. Flanigan?”
