Episode Six: Showtime!

The entire atmosphere of the room changes. Nurses and support staff come out of nowhere. Two large bubble lights in the ceiling come on. Someone adjusts the bed so that I am sitting up, and there is a birth platform below me. In all the commotion I am dimly aware of a small cart being wheeled in–the isolette–where the pediatrician will examine the baby. Pediatrician! Baby! Oh that’s right! But I am still so wrapped up in my bodily drama. Just because I reached 10 cm dilation does not mean that the intense contractions subside. Oh no no no. The quakes are still rocketing through my body, but I now have the urge to bear down with them, and bearing down helps… kind of.

AC and I get into the position we had practiced: he sitting behind me, me leaning back into him, while he pulls my legs back under my knees, so that I am in a seated squat of sorts. I remember to tuck my chin towards my chest and push with each contraction, breathing normally. Here we go, ready, I can do this… puusssshhhhhhh. I push as hard and as long as I can and yet the contraction is still going on without me and everyone around me is yelling “push, push, push.” Damn. This is harder than I thought it would be. I try to collect myself and get ready for the next one, but oh no it’s coming already. Ppppuuuussshhhhhhhh. Damn, I ran out of steam again. I would really like to push steadily and methodically, breathing through each one but wait here comes another one. Aack. More than ever now the contractions are like waves that I have to catch. C’mon, puuuussshhhhh.

All of the birth videos we watched made pushing look so much easier than active labor. The women worked hard, sure, but in between pushes, they seemed to relax, take a breather, smile, or laugh. Where’s my break? I wanted to shout. Once again, childbirth turns out to be utterly unlike all other athletic experiences I’ve had, because you can always get off the bike, hop out of the pool, rest between sets, or just collapse on the track. But my uterus will not stop! Here comes another one—pussshhhh!

A nurse positions a large standing mirror to the left of Lori. Look at your baby! Lori says. I can’t see, I don’t have my glasses on! Someone, probably Misty, fetches them. Look at your baby! I try to focus on the image in the mirror. I see dark wet hair, a head pulsing forward and then back. Touch your baby! Somebody guides my hand and AC’s hand to touch our baby’s head. I want to freeze this moment, savor it, contemplate the awesome fact that I just touched my baby, but there is no time, I am perpetually distracted by the enormous force shuddering through my loins and oh yeah pushpushpushpushpushpush!

At some point Lori asks AC to change position. He gets out from behind me and stands on my right, holding my right leg. A nurse I haven’t met before is holding my left leg. There seem to be other people milling about. I’ve lost track of Misty, who is taking pictures with our camera. Lori is down between my legs. I can see the top of her head.

She gives me directions.

Ok, I want you to grunt when you push. Like you’re straining on the toilet.

Huh?

You know, like you’re on the toilet.

A contraction comes and I bear down and make a feeble grunt. AC and the others model it for me. I try again, but I can’t get the right sound. C’mon, grunt, uuunnhhhh, push, puuusshhhhh.

I don’t know how to grunt! I don’t strain my bowels. I’ve spent the last 9 months purposefully not straining on the toilet to prevent hemorrhoids. And these contractions won’t give me a break so I can figure out what they want me to do.

Lori says, C’mon, get angry. Grunt like you’re angry.

I roar instead. I will bellow this baby out. Actually it feels good.

But it’s inefficient, apparently. Stop, Lori says. You’ll tire yourself out. That isn’t helping.

She looks up at me, her eyes serious behind her dark-rimmed glasses. I am breathing heavily as though in the middle of a sprint.

I want you to push the way you learned not to. I want you to push all wrong. I want you to hold your breath. We need to do this fast. Ok? Hold your breath and push.

I can barely think about what this might mean. I take a deep breath and push will all my might. Again, again. C’mon, c’mon. Pushpushpushpush.

Lori looks up. You can push this baby out but it’s going to take several more pushes and we need to get the baby out now. I’m going to have to do an episiotomy. Ok? Just a small one.

Panting, shaking, I nod yes.

I barely feel the snip. One more contraction rolls in. Everyone is with me. C’mon, pushpushpuuuussshhhhh!

And out slides a baby!

It’s a girl!

I see a small wrinkled thing covered in goo, with a large ridged, pointy head, and a ton of dark hair. Lori hands her up to the nurse or pediatrician who takes her to the isolette.

A girl!! I am shouting. Look at all that dark hair! AC, we have a baby girl! And all the while my body is still heaving with the contractions.

It does not register that Lori did not place the baby on my belly, that AC did not cut the cord after it stopped pulsating. All thought is blotted out except for one: we have a daughter. A daughter with dark hair. And a pointy Klingon skull.

Suddenly they are whisking the baby out of the room in the isolette. They need to take her down to the nursery, Lori says. I look at AC. We had discussed that in the event of a C-section, he would stay with the baby. Go, I say.

Misty takes AC’s place at my side. I feel awake and jazzed. Strangely not at all worried about the baby. In retrospect, I think some defense mechanism had kicked in to prevent me from freaking out. Also the contractions were still commanding a lot of my attention.

Ok, time to push out the placenta, Lori says. Misty holds my hand as I push. I am so grateful for her presence. Pushing the placenta out is not nearly as difficult as birthing the baby, but even so it does not slide out like butter.

AC is still gone.
I still haven’t held my baby.

Misty goes to check on them while Lori sews me up. Nurses give me a clean gown, put a large pad underneath me on the bed, with an icepack for my bum.

Somebody, Misty or Lori, comes back into the room. The baby’s okay. AC is with her.

Relief courses through me in a way that lets me know I was more worried than I realized. She’s fine. She’s fine. Now when can I see her?

I am impatient and hyper, chatting to the nurses as they clean me up. I can’t believe it’s a girl. And did you see all that dark hair? Where did she get that? I apologize to the brown-haired nurse who held my left leg. I didn’t mean to imply there’s anything wrong with brown hair, I was just surprised is all.

Lori shows me the placenta and cord. The afterbirth looks like a deep sea creature—dark, veined, liverish.

Still no baby. Still no AC.

I feel captive, bleeding onto my bed.

My cell phone is within reach and I call my mom. You have a granddaughter, I say. I tear up. 5lbs 4 oz. Oh! That’s what you weighed, she chokes up.

Just then, somebody tells me that AC is bringing the baby. It’s against hospital policy to allow anyone to carry a baby in the hallway, she says, but they made an exception for you.

I hang up with my mother. AC walks in with this impossibly small bundle.

Underneath a tiny hat and nestled in blankets is our daughter. Our daughter. With wide, bright eyes.

At long last I hold my baby.
She’s here.