“What’re you doing?” my wife asks, eying me curiously. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
“Putting her food in the bags so it doesn’t get splashed on.”
“What the hell do you think’s about to happen in here?” she guffaws. “If blood splatters into that back corner, we’re in big trouble.”
“Just seemed like the right thing to do.”
“The right thing to do would be to get your sexy hiney over here and give me a kiss.”
“Ugh,” our child groans. “Not again…”
I’ve barely slipped my tongue between her parted lips when a team of medical people storm into the room.
“Gonna need you to back away for a minute, sir.”
I move to stand by Prissy, watching with rapt fascination as huge spotlights descend from the ceiling and her bed is broken into pieces. Whitney’s legs are placed into stirrups and a tray with all sorts of tools is wheeled in. There are people in scrubs fluttering around the room, setting up the baby warmer and some tarp contraption under Whit’s bottom.
“Ooooh!” Prissy squeals, squeezing my biceps as the room begins to look a little more like the stuff she watches on ER. “This is gonna be so frickin’ cool!”
“Just what I was thinking.” Not at all what I was thinking.
“Dad?” a nurse I haven’t met yet calls, waving me over. “You can come stand on this side. You’re gonna help hold her leg back like this,” she says, bringing Whitney’s knee to her chest. “She’s numb from the epidural, so she won’t be able to do it on her own.”
I nod, feeling self-important. “I think I can manage that.”
“Perfect.” She smiles at me while walking around to the other side of the bed. “I’ll just be over here.”
“Cool deal.” I’ve so got this. Best delivery coach ever, comin’ atcha!
“Oh, and see that mirror?” she points between Whitney’s legs. “That’s so you can watch what’s happening without actually being down there. “If you start to feel sick, just don’t look.”
“Got it.” My skin starts to tingle. It feels like little pin pricks all over my body, and my breathing becomes shallow as I rub my wife’s arm, trying to comfort her wondering who the hell’s gonna comfort me. Now that we’re so close I feel like I’m starting to hyperventilate.
“Where do I go?” Prissy asks, pacing like a lost puppy.
“You can stand by your dad,” Gretta offers, forcing a smile. She’s obviously still not too keen on the idea of her remaining in the room. “If it’s too much, just go sit back in your chair, okay, honey?”
“Hear that, Dad?” Prissy taunts. “If it gets too much, just go sit in that chair.”
Whitney snorts. “Behave, Priscilla Louise.”
“Yes ma’am.” She glues herself to my side, curiously taking in everything going on around us.
“On the next contraction, we’re going to start pushing,” Gretta announces, rolling herself on the little stool to between Whit’s legs. “Once we get the baby to crown, Doc’ll come in to deliver.”
“Okay,” my girl says, squeezing my hand with nervous excitement, while the nurses’ heads all whip in the direction of the machine that measures the contractions. “You ready?” Whitney’s eyes meet with mine. She’s glowing with excitement.
I nod. “This is it,” I say, with a knot lodged right in the center of my throat. “We’re really about to have a baby.” I take a deep breath and twist my head side to side, cracking my neck, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before I too focus on the monitor—my heartrate climbing with the mounting contractions. I swear it’s like the thing is directly connected to my pulse.
“Did y’all know…” Oh, shit. My stomach drops. “Approximately seven hundred women die every year in the US alone from pregnancy and delivery complications?”
Gretta and the leg-holding nurse both gape at our child in stunned disbelief.
“You’ve really gotta stay off the damn YouTube,” Whitney says, laughing nervously. She reaches to scruff Prissy’s head. “It’s gonna be okay, baby.”
“Just don’t be a statistic, Momma.” The worry in her little voice is gut-wrenching. And that’s what her ill-timed comment comes down to—She’s scared. It’s what all her morbid death knowledge stems from.
“No plans to, baby.” My girls share a tearful embrace before the chaos begins.
“Here it comes,” Gretta announces, as everyone scurries into position. “Let’s see if we can get this baby to come down.”
On her command, Whitney bears down, apparently that means to curl into a sit up and clench every muscle in her body, including the ones in her fingers that are damn near cutting off my circulation. It’s okay, though. I’ll deal. Losing a few digits is a small price to pay to ease her discomfort.
“You’re doing so good, love,” I croon. She’s been pushing for a solid forty minutes and is running out of steam.
“I can’t do this,” my beautiful wife cries, falling back onto the pillow.
“You’re doing so well,” the leg nurse, whom I’ve just learned is named Harloe, encourages. “Won’t be long now.” She places an oxygen mask over her face. “Just breathe.”
“Baby’s right there,” Gretta announces, sliding over for Dr. Andrews to take her place.
“You’re doing great, Whitney,” the doctor praises. “We’re going to push real hard through the next few contractions. No breaks. Push to ten. One big breath, and immediately go into the next one.”
“I can’t,” she wails. She’s dripping in sweat and the whites of her eyes are red from straining so hard.
“Can’t is just a state of mind, Momma,” Prissy argues. “Now, you just bear down and push my sister out!”
That little pep talk seems to light a fire in her ass. “Okay,” Whit sighs, drying her eyes and sucking air from the mask.
The next few pushes are so intense I’m tempted to borrow the oxygen for myself. This is some hard work, and I’m not even doing anything.
“Look at her hair!” Prissy screams. “My sister has hair.”
“Brother,” I grunt, while petting my wife’s damp hair off her face.
“The head is out,” Dr. Andrews exclaims. When I glance up to the mirror all I see is her shoving a snot bulb down the baby’s throat, suctioning fluid out. “Give me one more push. On three…”
Before she’s gotten to two, the baby slithers out right into the doctor’s waiting arms, and Prissy folds over, gagging.
“Really, Priss?” Whitney collapses into the bed, heaving for breath, while craning her neck to try to see the baby. “It’s just blood.”
“Nuh-uhn,” my daughter grumbles, still retching. “You—”
I clamp a hand over her mouth, giving her a very severe look that thankfully Whitney doesn’t notice, as she’s become too focused with what’s going on at the foot of the bed.