“A toga?” Andrew asks incredulously. “What are you talking about?”
“It's genius!” I gasp. José's fixing my problem.
“How did you know what to do?” I ask.
Kind, dark eyes meet mine. “My sister had a baby six months ago. And Gerald warned me.”
Within ten seconds, I have the ends of the sheet tied over one shoulder, the thick towel absorbing my amniotic fluid, and we slowly make our way to the car. Halfway down the porch stairs, my back starts to crack my hips in half.
Andrew pulls out his phone, presses on the glass, and suddenly, “Love Will Find a Way” by Yes starts playing. I close my eyes, breathe slowly, and let my mind take me to a quieter place, turning inward until the pressure eases.
We climb in the back of the car, my ass jutting up because of the weird toga-diaper thing I've got going on, but at least I'm not in pain.
“My sister says that hypnosis stuff doesn't work,” I hear José mutter to Andrew.
I don't say a word, my hands on my belly, doing an inventory of the boys. Lefty eases to the right just enough to confirm he's fine, but Righty is being awfully quiet. I can't find his head, the location different now.
Maybe he's not transverse anymore.
Maybe I don't need the surgical birth.
Instantly, panic fills me. I didn't think I had a choice. But the idea of possibly being able to deliver vaginally fills me with diffuse terror.
“What's wrong?” Andrew whispers, hand on my knee. I can tell he doesn't know what to do with himself as José navigates the car quickly on the back roads, hitting the entrance to the Pike with a professional precision that infuses me with gratitude.
“I'm not sure I want a vaginal delivery.”
“Why would you have one?”
“Righty's head isn't where it was last night. Maybe we can do both twins vaginally after all. I spent a lot of emotional energy accepting a c-section, and now...” I make a helpless sound, hearing it echo in my ears, down my throat, nestling under my heart like a cold, scared mouse.
“Here.” He hands me a stainless steel water bottle and I take a sip. It's honey ginger water, with a touch of lemon. Ice cold, too.
“You made this for me?”
“I've had a few in the fridge, ready for this. You said you didn't want to puke orange Gatorade all over the place and never be able to touch it again, so I followed Hope's electrolyte solution.”
The concoction is perfect, like drinking in Andrew's love.
And not the kind with a high protein count.
I sit up slowly, back muscles pulling in toward my spine, my hips cranking in as if someone's turning a gear. The tightness makes it hard to breathe, the band of pressure pulling my pubic bone up, down, in, out, everywhere at once. The deep, searing stretch and contraction is something I have to ride through.
We hit a pothole and I feel like my nerves turn into fireworks.
“Andrew,” I gasp, losing control. “I can't. I can't I can't I can't–”
Strong hands go immediately to my hips. He twists his torso to accommodate me, eyes within inches of mine, laser focused and intent.
“Breathe,” he says, counting a long inhale. “Expand your belly as you inhale.”
“I can't!”
“You are.”
The confidence in his deep baritone unlatches some of the stubborn muscle fibers encasing the babies and I feel a lurch, a softening, a smidgen of relief as I exhale, then push through the tightness for another long, slow inhale.
“You are. You are. You are,” he says, low and slow, the words turning into a vibration that takes my fear to a place where it can flitter and fret but doesn't get in the way of the rescue I need.
And then the pain recedes, slowly replaced with a brisk tingling that saps all my energy.
“Seven minutes away,” José announces as Andrew lets go of my hips, unclicks his seat belt, and positions himself better in front of me.
“That's not safe if we get in an accident.”
“José's good and I need to be able to get to your hips better.”
“I'm fine, Andrew. The contractions aren't that close.”
“That was four minutes, and it lasted almost a minute.”
Pregnancy math happens fast in my head. “Uh....”
“Drink,” he orders. As I tip the bottle up and take my first swallow, the twinge at my back grows again.
“Oh,” I gasp.
He takes the heels of his hands, finds the spots on my hips where Hope taught the partners to push in case of back labor, and works with precision to do whatever it takes to make the contraction easier for me. This one fades faster.
This one feels like a giant red alert.
“That was four minutes,” he says calmly. “Hydrate. Breathe. We're doing fine.”
Bzzzzzz
My phone.
I'm here at the hospital, Shannon texts. What entrance are you coming in? I'll meet you there.
Bzzzzzz
Hi Amanda. This is Alex Derjian. I'm the doctor on call this weekend. I'll meet you at the hospital.
“Oh, no!” I groan.
“What's wrong?”
“I can’t believe this!”
“You're giving birth?”
“No. Not that. The doctor is the one doctor in the practice who I haven't met. Alex Derjian.”
“Why is that name so familiar?”
“Isn’t he the guy who coached Declan on how to catch the baby when Shannon went into labor in the elevator?”
“Dec is going to rib me for copying him.”
“It wasn't like we planned this! Dr. Rohrlian was supposed to do the c-section on Thursday!”
José pulls the car up to the ER entrance. I see Shannon there, hair in a ponytail, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
She lights up when she sees us.
My heart hugs her from a distance.
Having a bestie is the best in a crisis.
Especially a BFF who's already been through childbirth, even if it was in a broken elevator and involved turning her vajayjay into a possible Pulitzer Prize opportunity for the right photographer.
Rushing the SUV, she opens my door and offers a hand. I'm mid-step when my lower belly tightens and it feels like someone's stabbing my cervix from the inside out.
I freeze.
I can't move.
Behind me, I feel Andrew's arms lock in place, his body rigid to support mine. Shannon puts her hand on my hip. I groan.
“Contraction?” she asks.
“Uh,” is all that comes out of me.
Suspended in midair, I can't even move the few inches to set my foot on the ground, the sensation of being a thousand pieces of glass held together by a spiderweb too much. One millimeter and I'm in bone-grinding pain.
So I wait between two realities, car and ground, until enough time passes and I can let gravity continue to do its job.
“Wow,” Shannon finally says, fishing around in her backpack. “Let's get you inside. That was a full minute long. How far apart are they?”
“Two to four minutes.”
Time changes, as if someone snaps their fingers and I experience everything in extended time. The pain itself doesn't intensify, but it elongates, stretched out and settling in.