What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  Carefully, I drop to my knees, holding the side of the claw-foot tub as I fold my enormous belly over my thighs. I remember crawling on my knees once before, desperate to make it down the stairs to my phone.

  “Please, God, let my baby be okay,” I whisper. I haven’t prayed in years, and I’m not even sure I believe in God. But I need all the help I can get. I’m willing to make a deal with the devil if it keeps my baby safe. “Don’t let me lose this baby too.” I wince as my back tightens, and I see a flash of white behind my eyes.

  A trail of red runs down my thighs and swirls toward the drain. Despite the scorching-hot water, I’m frozen with fear.

  Forcing myself to move, I heave myself back to standing, desperate to get out of the bathroom and to the phone. I need to call Owen. My legs are wooden and heavy and refuse to listen to my screaming brain. I’m transported back to the waiting room, the hot seepage of my water breaking down my legs. I wipe at my inner thigh, horrified when my hand is covered in warm, sticky blood. Before I can stop myself, I throw up over the side of the tub. Finally, my body responds, and I force myself to continue moving. My baby needs me.

  * * *

  OWEN 9:42 AM

  An overwhelming sense of déjà vu passes over me as I pull up to the emergency room. Well, screech up might be a more apt way of describing it, but to the valet’s credit, he doesn’t even blink as I throw him my keys and nearly knock him over as I rush inside to get a wheelchair.

  I was in the lumber aisle at Home Depot when Cassidy called. It took me a few seconds to reconcile the calm way she spoke with the information she was giving me—that I needed to come home right away because the baby was coming. “It’s too soon,” I answered, as if that simple fact might change what she’d told me. “There’s still a month to go.” She didn’t respond, only moaned in agony. I abandoned my cart in the middle of aisle two.

  She waddled out the front door as I pulled into the drive, one hand on her back and her face twisted in pain. “The bag?” I mumbled, our perfect delivery-day plan quickly unraveling. Cassidy needed her robe and those special postpartum pajama bottoms she had insisted on ordering. Where was the damn bag? We kept meaning to pack the duffel, but we thought we had time. Plenty of time.

  She shook her head and let me help her into the truck. Last time I had to drag her kicking and screaming to the hospital. I almost wished she’d fight back now. This calm demeanor was unnerving, as if she’d already lost something. In the truck she sat perched on one side, arms curled around her bump as if she could hold the baby inside by sheer force. I raced the familiar path to the hospital, catching the tail end of a yellow light and hoping the cop who loved to use it as a speed trap wasn’t out this morning. Luck was on our side, and we made the sixteen-minute journey in just under twelve.

  By another stroke of luck, the emergency room is almost empty and I’m able to flag down a nurse to help me fetch Cassidy from the car. We maneuver her into a chair, lifting her arms and legs like she’s a doll. Her pale face barely registers anything. I don’t like the look in her eyes. She stares down at her belly, blankly.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say, jogging behind the nurse as we rush toward the elevators. Déjà vu threatens to crush me again, but I force myself back into the present moment.

  Cassidy looks up at me and shakes her head before looking back into her lap. I follow her gaze to the two dark stains on her gray sweatpants, one on either leg. I stop dead in my tracks, bile rising to my throat. Please God, let her be okay, I think before pushing myself forward again, into the elevator.

  * * *

  CASSIDY 10:22 AM

  Most babies born at thirty-five weeks’ gestation survive with minimal health deficits, the biggest risk being immature lungs, which might require the baby to spend some time in the NICU. I repeat these facts like a mantra, straining in the back parts of my brain for the exact statistics for survival rates. It’s pretty high. Over 90 percent, I think. But my baby coming early isn’t the problem. Early, I can deal with. I’m nervous that early labor combined with a lack of movement means something bad. I’ve no idea if she moved overnight, so she may have been still for as many as eighteen hours now. All the books agreed this is bad.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I mumble as the orderly pushes me into the last room on the left in the labor-and-delivery unit. Owen lifts a brow. I try to suppress my annoyance that he’s forgotten that this was the room. The room we were in before. “Anything look familiar in here?” I ask, hating the sarcasm dripping from my voice but unable to stop myself.

  The color drains from his face. “Oh, shit. I’ll ask for a new room,” he says, looking desperately at the aide, who pretends he’s not listening to our conversation.

  “It’s fine,” I say, shrugging. “It’s just a room.” Owen bites his lip, torn between making a big deal or letting it be. The nurse said it was a busy day for babies, so it’s possible it’s the only room available. I’m not willing to delay being seen and risk irritating the staff just to get a different room.

  A nurse and doctor enter and descend on me with practiced efficiency. They help me onto the bed and quickly attach monitors to my belly and arm. The nurse takes my vitals while rattling off a list of questions she’ll dutifully note in my chart. I wonder if my folder lists the details of my miscarriage or if there’s a fresh chart for each new baby.

  “Have you given birth before?” she asks, after recording my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen levels.

  A cramp seizes my lower belly, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pursing my lips. “Yes,” I manage, my voice a whistle through the pain.

  “Vaginally or caesarean?”

  Another cramp. I can’t talk through it, which—if the books can be trusted—indicates I’m getting closer to delivery.

  Owen clears his throat, my voice in the storm. “We miscarried our first child at twenty weeks. She had a natural delivery,” he says, squeezing my shoulder gently.

  The nurse nods. “I’m sorry,” she says, scribbling in my chart. “We’ll do an ultrasound and check the baby’s heartbeat first, then a vaginal exam to see how far dilated and effaced you are,” she says, her voice low and soothing. “It seems you’re far enough along for this to be a nice, standard delivery,” she adds, sensing the tension in the room. “Try to relax. We’ll take good care of you.” She smiles and busies herself getting materials ready to place an IV in my arm. I remember the drill. Another nurse enters and settles onto the stool next to the bed.

  “All right, mama,” she says, a slight southern drawl lilting her words. “Let’s take a peek at the little one.” As she squeezes blue jelly onto my belly, I brace myself for the worst. Instead, the beautiful sound of my baby’s heartbeat fills the room. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, its rhythm steady and strong. My eyes fill with tears as another cramp coils through my insides. I smile through the pain and see Owen is grinning, tears running down his cheeks.

  “Heartbeat is strong,” the nurse confirms, moving the wand down. She rolls the wand left and right, pushing a little harder on the left side of my belly and clicking buttons on the machine with her free hand. I lean back into the pillows and allow myself a moment of peace while I wait for the next contraction.

  The nurse furrows her brow and I lean forward. “Looks like the baby’s in the posterior position,” she says, resting her hands on the side of the bed. “This means she’s ‘sunny-side-up,’ if you will. The hardest part of her head is resting against your lower back, explaining the intense back labor you’re feeling. Ideally, she’ll turn to the facedown position, but your water has already broken, so she’s running out of room in there.”

  Over the years I’ve dealt with posterior and breech births often in equine deliveries. Many of those labors needed manual help. “I told the nurse earlier I haven’t felt much movement today. Is that normal?”

  The nurse nods. “Sometimes as they get closer to delivery, they simply run out of room to kick as much. It’s likely she turned around into
this position and that initiated labor.” She wipes the ultrasound wand down and pushes the machine away as she stands. “Looks like your girl is a little impatient,” she jokes.

  Owen laughs, some color returning to his cheeks. “Wonder where she gets that from?” he says, nudging me lightly.

  “Better early than never.” I grimace against a new contraction. “Most importantly, when can I get that epidural?” I ask, the promise of some pain relief almost as good as knowing everything is okay. So far.

  * * *

  Cassidy 11:37 AM

  The drugs differ from the first time. Before I slipped into a hazy, half-awake state. All I remember are the faded sounds of machines and nurses, a lot of background noise set against a vivid array of dancing lights that hovered just behind my eyelids. Those drugs slipped into my arm and quickly seeped through my entire body, erasing any contractions, any feelings at all. It was like I was swimming through a purple cloud that should’ve been pain but was soft and blurred. I didn’t feel my baby leave my body. It pains me to admit I was nearly unconscious for that monumental action, but it was probably for the best. No one deserves to experience that torture awake.

  Now I’m numb from my belly button to my toes but hyperaware of everything else in the room. The machines chirp every few seconds, proof my baby is still actively trying to make her way into the world. Although I can’t feel the contractions, the machine by my shoulder shows they are coming fast and furious.

  “How much longer?” I ask the room. Owen’s sitting in the chair next to the bed, scrolling through his phone. A memory, clear as a photograph, of him cradling his head in his hands as I lay on this same bed, delivering our lost child, comes to mind. I guess part of me was conscious through the mist of drugs. I’m plagued by a stab of guilt for leaving him alone that horrible day. I was given the benefit of sedation to calm my hysteria, but poor Owen had to fend for himself, to bear witness to our son’s arrival. “It must almost be time.” The machine to my right bleeps in answer.

  A dark-haired nurse walks in. Click. Another memory. I remember her walking toward my bed another time, but her eyes were sadder before. This same nurse handed me my baby boy, wrapped in a silken shroud, to say our last good-byes. I try to recall her name, but it eludes me.

  “I’m sure you don’t remember me,” I say as she fiddles with the bag of IV fluids dripping into my arm. Owen lifts his head. Recognition flashes in his eyes. “We were here about a year ago when we lost our baby.” Although it’ll never be easy, it’s less difficult to talk about the miscarriage each time I say it out loud. “You were our nurse then, and I just wanted to thank you again for everything you did for us.”

  Moira, her name card now visible, brushes back a strand of hair as she studies me a little closer. As she recognizes me, warmth fills her brown eyes and she lifts a hand to her heart. “Oh, honey, of course I remember you,” she says. “I was so sorry for your loss.” She shakes her head before smiling again. “But look at you now!” she exclaims. “It makes me so happy to be here, bringing your second baby into the world.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “I’m sure a million people have told you everything happens for a reason,” she pauses. I can’t help but stiffen at the expression. I’ve heard it a hundred times by now, and it’s still tough to hear. “And I’m sure you’ve bristled every time someone says it.” She chuckles knowingly. “But your angel baby paved the way for this miracle today. Your little girl is proof that even after the darkest storm, there comes a rainbow.” The machine blips beside us, my contractions getting closer together. “It appears your rainbow baby hears us talking about her and wants to join the conversation,” she says, winking. “Get ready, mama. I think we’re ready to push.”

  * * *

  OWEN 12:45 PM

  The ice chips I’m fetching for Cassidy seem inadequate. Even though she’s been actively pushing for only thirty minutes, her body’s been laboring to get our baby out all day. She’s clearly exhausted. The doctor called for a quick break to let her rest, but I’m not sure how much more she can handle. She lies on the bed, her chestnut hair plastered across her sweaty brow.

  Sensing me beside her she opens her eyes and manages a weak smile before letting me pop two ice chips into her mouth. She’s had nothing to eat or drink in hours.

  A few minutes later Moira steps into the room. “Cassidy, you’re fully effaced and dilated, but the baby hasn’t moved from the negative-one position, meaning she still has a long way to go.”

  I rest my hand on her shoulder. “What does that mean?” I ask as Dr. Julian strides in while pulling on a new pair of gloves.

  An alarm on the blood pressure machine sounds loudly, and Moira hits a few buttons. The doctor frowns and furrows her brow. “Blood pressure is spiking a bit, but the contractions are pretty intense. How do you feel otherwise?”

  Cassidy tries to lift her head off the pillow but lets it fall back down. I glance at the screen and watch as the numbers rise: 130/100. 148/110. 153/120.

  “She normally has really low blood pressure,” I say, panic setting in despite my best efforts to stay calm. “I’ve never seen it that high.”

  Cassidy turns to look up at me, smiling reassuringly. “I’m okay, Owen, I feel …” Her eyes roll back in her head, the whites horrifyingly white before they slip closed. Stunned, I reach my hand to her cheek as if I might rouse her. She feels cool and clammy.

  The machine chirps angrily, the pressure dropping instead of rising. It falls down to 100/70 and keeps dipping. Moira presses the call button and I stand, frozen in place, as two more nurses rush into the room. Every machine beeps at once and they growl instructions to each other.

  “The fetal heartbeat is elevated …”

  “Mom’s blood pressure is dropping …”

  “We need to take her into surgery, now …”

  The nurses continue to talk over each other as one pulls at the machines attached to Cassidy, who lies unconscious on the bed. Time stands still as they wheel her out of the room, ignoring me completely.

  “Mr. Morgan?” Moira repeats. I’m not sure how long she’s been calling me from the doorway, but I can tell it’s not the first time. “Cassidy’s getting prepped for an emergency cesarean now. I need you to follow me,” she says gently, gesturing for me to hurry up. Our possessions are scattered around the room, and I’m unsure if I’m supposed to leave them or gather them up first. Moira senses my hesitation. “Don’t worry. You’ll be coming back here. I’ll keep your things safe,” she promises. A hundred questions run through my mind as I rush to follow her down the hall.

  “Cassidy’s pressure dropped, and she passed out,” she says, stating the obvious. “The baby is in distress. She didn’t turn enough to make her way out, and it appears as if the cord might cause some flow complications. The doctors want to get her out as soon as possible to avoid any further risk to Cassidy or the baby.” I nod, swallowing back the giant lump threatening to choke me. “Cassidy’s getting prepped and asked for you to be there with her.”

  I nod, still unable to find my voice.

  Moira places a hand on my arm. “I need you to buck up,” she says, staring me straight in the face, her expression serious. “I don’t need you passing out in there because you catch sight of a little blood. She’s going to be okay. They both are. Your wife is strong and she needs you right now, so take a deep breath and stand by her side until that baby comes out. You got it?” She releases my arm but gives me one last hard look.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, some color coming back to my cheeks. Moira’s right, of course. I’m not the one being cut open, even if I do feel like I’m being torn to pieces.

  “All right then,” she says, smiling again. “Follow me.” She picks up the pace as she heads toward the surgical ward, and I have to jog to keep up.

  * * *

  OWEN 1:05 PM

  I’m handed a blue gown, booties, and a cap before entering the surgical room. Watching Moira, I mimic the way she places the gown, slit facin
g backward, over her scrubs. The booties barely fit over my sneakers.

  “You’re going to stand next to Cassidy’s head. She’s awake but a little scared right now. It’s your job to keep her calm,” she says, snapping a pair of gloves onto her small hands. “Whatever you do, do not look behind the curtain. Too many dads peek and end up passed out on the floor. We don’t need you hitting your head and getting rushed to the ER,” she teases. “No looking.”

  I nod, my own blood pressure dropping at the thought. “No worries there. Blood and guts make me queasy.” She shoots me a concerned look. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

  Following her through the automatic doors, I’m overwhelmed by the intense brightness of the room. White walls, white floors, white curtains, and harsh white fluorescent bulbs cast a stark, artificial white glow on the stainless-steel counters and equipment. Dr. Julian stands above Cassidy’s exposed belly with a marker in hand. Squinting, I realize she’s marking the spots on my wife’s body she intends to cut open. Swallowing back a wave of nausea, I avert my gaze to take in the rest of Cassidy’s body, which is covered in blue drapes. Moira leads me past a white curtain spread about two feet high and two feet wide across the expanse of Cass’s shoulders.

  “Hi,” I say, reaching down to kiss Cassidy’s cool forehead. Her hair is tucked inside a blue cap like my own. “How are you doing?”

  She smiles, her teeth chattering. “I’m good,” she says, voice shaking. “But I’m freezing.” Her lips are tinged purple. Looking around, I don’t see any blankets.

  Moira hears the exchange. “The epidural tends to have that affect,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ll grab some hot-water bottles for around your shoulders. That should help.”

  Within a minute she returns with warm bottles that she places gently under Cassidy’s shoulders and to either side of her rib cage. I wish I could rub some warmth into my wife, but I’m rendered helpless, watching as both her arms are stretched to the side and she’s instructed not to move.