by Kate Morris
“Doesn’t mean I’m not fat.”
“You’ve hardly even gained weight. You still feel the same weight as you were before you got pregnant. How much have you gained?”
“Twenty-one pounds. And that was enough. It was hard enough keeping food down, let alone trying to gain the appropriate amount of weight,” she tells him as he places her very gently on her feet in the kitchen.
“Hey, guys. Doing ok, sis?” Hannah asks as she rushes over and reaches for Reagan’s face. Her sister’s soft, cool fingertips feel heavenly against her skin.
“Yeah, this is great. Awesome, actually,” she replies with deep sarcasm.
“Oh, my poor darling,” Hannah says and kisses her forehead. “Let me get you a cool towel. It really helps, especially the farther along it goes.”
“Thanks, Hannie,” Reagan tells her as Hannah moves away. “My water finally broke.”
“Not long now,” Hannah says, returning from the sink with a damp, cold rag.
“I’m going outside to walk,” she tells her sister and slides her feet into her grandfather’s canvas, slip-on shoes. For some reason, these are the shoes she wants to wear. She wants him here, but he can’t be. This is as close as she’s going to get to having him with her tonight.
“Remember your breathing. It does help. Or screaming. That works, too,” her sister offers.
Reagan manages to chuckle. Then she nods to John, and they leave through the back door. She makes it all the way to the equipment shed before she has to stop again to deal with another annoying contraction.
“Damn,” she says with a hiss. Then her stomach does a flip, and she turns instantly nauseous. She bends over and vomits beside the equipment shed, pressing her hand against the wall of the building. John holds back her hair. When her stomach is empty, Reagan stands upright again.
“Is that normal?” John asks in an irritated, anxious rush of words as he strokes her hair and back.
Reagan nods. “Yes. It happens. I should’ve known I wasn’t getting out of this pregnancy without puking one last time.”
“Can I get you something?”
“An epidural?” she jokes.
He chuckles nervously and says, “Anything else?”
Reagan shakes her head and motions for them to continue their walk. They circle back around and end up down by the hog barn. Another contraction hits. This time it is sharp and stabbing. She actually moans, scaring John.
“Take me to the shed,” she says when it passes.
He bends to pick her up, but Reagan pushes him gently back.
“No, I want to walk. Let me walk, John.”
“Ok, babe,” he agrees with a nod.
Reagan looks at him as they walk, him with his arm behind her back for support. Her handsome husband’s hair is standing on end. His eyes are glazed over with fear and worry. His sculpted jawline is tense, and a vein works in his neck. Reagan rests her hand on his thick forearm.
“Don’t worry. I got this,” she tells him. “Don’t worry about me. As a matter of fact, go to bed and get some rest.”
“What?” he says an octave higher than his normal voice. “Are you crazy, boss? I’m not going anywhere. You don’t want me in there? That’s fine. I’ll wait outside the door.”
“John, just relax. Ooooh,” she says tightly and inhales a sharp breath. This is the worst one yet. It’s getting impossible to talk through it. The time is coming. She knows she is likely nearing the moment to start pushing. Has she waited too long? It passes again, but the shed feels so far away in the distance as if they have five miles to walk instead of fifty yards. “John,” Reagan says in a pleading tone. “I don’t think I can make it.”
He doesn’t even ask. He simply hefts her into his arms again and nearly sprints while still managing not to jiggle her too roughly against him.
“Simon!” John barks, although Simon is just inside the door. “Oh, good. You’re here.”
“Nowhere else to be, sir.”
Simon is smiling, charming, dimples showing. Reagan would like to strangle him.
“What do I do?” John asks with panic.
“Put her down, sir,” Simon tells him. “We’ve got it from here. Right, Little Doc?”
Reagan barely manages a nod.
“How close?” Simon asks as John places her on her feet again.
“Five minutes. Maybe three. Severe. Can’t talk through them anymore. Can barely breathe through them,” she reports.
Behind him, Sam is jotting notes quickly on a chart.
“Sam, can you help Reagan get changed into something more comfortable?” Simon asks in a calm tone.
Reagan follows her behind the screen, but she can hear Simon talking to John. When she emerges in a sterile hospital gown, her husband is gone, and the three of them are alone just as she’d requested when this all started about four hours ago, not counting the full day of light contractions.
“He’s just outside the door, Reagan,” Simon tells her as if to help subside her fears. “Now, why don’t you lie down and let me get some vitals, alright?”
She nods but hates this. She should be in charge here. Simon is still a student. Reagan reminds herself that he’s delivered quite a few babies, though. She has to trust him, even though it’s hard to do.
He takes her blood pressure, checks her pulse, dilates her pupils with a tiny flashlight, and checks her ankles for swelling.
“Everything looks great,” he replies and places his hand on her knee. “We’re going to need to do a cervix check, Reagan. I know you don’t want me to, but I have to know how far along you are.”
This is humiliating, but she is in so much pain that Reagan is confident that at this point she’d let one of the neighbor’s do it. Or a passerby on the road. Or one of the highwaymen.
“Fine. Just get it over with.”
They help her get her feet into the stirrups that Simon flips out, and she scoots down to the edge of the bed.
“I heard your water finally broke. I can tell. That’s good. Everything is presenting normal. You’re in good shape. We’re ready with everything else,” he says as he checks her. “Don’t worry, Reagan. Sam and I are on top of it. Our equipment and tools have been sanitized. The towels are ready and clean. I have a bucket already in place for the afterbirth. We don’t want you to worry about a thing. Just concentrate on what you need to do and leave the technical stuff to us.”
Simon is done a split second later, and Reagan is pretty sure he didn’t even look down there but performed a basic cervix check with his fingers. His manner is professional and calming.
“You’re at a seven,” he announces and nods to Sam, who writes it down along with the time on her chart.
A contraction hits, and she can barely breathe this time.
“Wow, shit!” Reagan swears. “This is sucking!”
Simon takes her hand in his and encourages her to squeeze. He wipes her brow with a cold rag and tells her to breathe slowly.
“Focus on my face, Reagan,” he says. “Easy. Slow. Just like me. Follow along. Slowly in, and…there, out. You’ve got it.”
A few seconds that feel like hours later, it subsides again. Simon nods and takes her pulse.
“Good,” he remarks. “You got through that one like a champ.”
“This fucking sucks. I’m never doing this again! God, I’m such an idiot! I hate John!”
Sam chuckles and presses another cool rag against her cheek. It helps a lot. She wishes she had a Dr. Pepper in a glass full of ice. She has no idea where that thought just came from, but she can taste the bubbly, sweet soda in her mouth. One final craving that is bizarre and inexplicable.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I threw up out by the equipment shed.”
“All right, we’ll note it, but that’s normal,” Simon tells her.
“Duh! I know that! I know…fuck!” she swears again as an intense one hits.
Simon helps her breathe through it and even holds her hand again. She doesn’t ca
re if she’s crushing it. He deserves it. This is his fault, too. She’s not sure how that makes sense, but it does to her.
The contractions go on for another hour and a half until Simon rechecks her and declares that she is finally ready to push. Then the real fear sets in. Reagan begins to feel an unnatural panic. Something doesn’t seem right. Her breathing goes berserk as a contraction hits. Simon tells her to push, but Reagan can’t concentrate. Her body just seems wrong. Something is wrong.
“Nothing is wrong,” Simon answers her.
She hadn’t even known she’d said it aloud.
“You’re doing just fine. I need you to push,” he says.
“No, something isn’t right, Simon,” she argues and moans as an intense pressure in her stomach forces her to bear down. Reagan groans loudly, swears once, and collapses back onto her pillow as the contraction eases.
“Get ready because the next one’s coming,” Simon warns her. “Rest. Breathe. Prepare yourself.”
She can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, so she starts asking Simon questions about the baby’s presentation, the placenta- if it is presenting first, to which he says that it is not. He tries to reassure her that everything is fine, but Reagan knows it isn’t. Then she’s pushing again against her will. Her body is forcing her to do the work she doesn’t want to do.
“Good. That’s it. You’re doing great!” Simon tells her.
Sam is also encouraging her and holding her hand. Reagan pushes Sam’s hand away. This tiny hand she is positive she will break.
“Damn it!” Reagan swears and lets her head loll back to rest. Feelings of foreboding and dread come over her so strong that she starts hyperventilating. “Something is wrong. I can feel it.”
“Easy, Reagan,” Simon orders. “Take it easy. Relax and rest between contractions.”
“I can’t do this!” she cries out. “I can’t, Simon. I’m going to die. I know I am. Something’s wrong.”
“Reagan, look at me,” he says. “I am monitoring everything. Your vitals are perfectly normal. Everything looks great. I can almost see the baby’s head. You’re doing so great. Just keep breathing and try to relax.”
She vehemently shakes her head and starts crying. “I’m going to die and so is this kid. John is going to be left alone. He’ll have no one.”
“Oh, no, Reagan,” Sam says, smoothing Reagan’s curls away from her head. “No, you’re doing so wonderful. John is fine, too.”
And then it hits her. John. She needs him. He is what is wrong because he is not with her. She needs her John.
“I’ll get him!” Sam answers her unspoken question. Or had she said it out loud? The world no longer makes sense as another fierce contraction takes over her mindless, spent body.
“Bear down, Reagan. Keep going,” Simon encourages and begins counting. Reagan would like to tell him to go to hell.
“Babe!” John says as he rushes into the room.
Reagan grits her teeth and pushes. The pain is excruciating and never-ending. When the contraction subsides, and Simon stops counting, Reagan collapses back onto her pillow again.
“I can’t do this,” she says with exhaustion.
“Of course, you can,” John says and kisses her forehead, which is matted with sweaty curls. “You’re my Reagan. You are the toughest woman I know. You got this, boss.”
He continues to talk to her as another contraction strikes. John has a soothing effect, and she calms down enough to concentrate on pushing. He also holds her into a more squatting position, supporting her back and weight.
“Eight…nine…ten, good,” Simon coaches. “The head is out, Reagan. Take a few breaths. Get ready.”
Within seconds she is pushing again.
“God, I’m never doing this again!” she yells and pushes again. Then she yells a few expletives, namely at John, who just smiles and keeps encouraging her. She’d like to punch him in the face.
“Almost there,” Sam says, standing at Simon’s shoulder now instead of by Reagan. “Great! Awesome. You’re doing great.”
“One more…good,” Simon says as the baby is finally expelled.
Reagan breathes a deep sigh of relief that it is over and feels her entire body become suddenly empty again.
“How is he? Is he breathing?” John asks with concern.
Simon doesn’t answer because Reagan knows he is likely suctioning the baby’s mouth and nose. Sam is right there in the same rushed manner swabbing it with towels.
“Well, she is doing great,” Simon finally announces as the baby cries out in protest of the cold air hitting its recently incubated body, and the light in the med shed stinging its eyes.
“She?” John asks.
Reagan looks at her husband. There are tears in his eyes.
“And her lungs are very strong. Yes, they are,” Simon says more to the baby than them. “You are a screamer, little one.”
“Oh, Reagan, she’s so beautiful,” Sam exclaims.
“Cut the cord?” Simon offers, to which John refuses. “That’s all right. There. All done.”
“Is it ok? Is it too small?” Reagan begins blurting. She asks the weight and length, which she knows have not been taken yet. “Is it breathing ok? Heart rate?”
“Doing fine, one-thirty-five. Normal rate. She’s small but seems just fine to me, Reagan,” Simon tells her from the back counter where they have placed blankets and towels as padding to examine the newborn. Simon is working quickly, but Reagan can’t see what’s going on.
“Is it breathing all right?” she calls to them.
“Yes, fine. I’m listening to everything. Lungs seem clear,” he calls back and says to Sam in a quieter tone to dictate on Reagan’s chart some notes about the baby. It makes Reagan nervous. She wonders if something is wrong.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s ok, honey,” John says. “Let Simon check her out.”
“She’s great, Reagan,” Sam says over her shoulder as she hands Simon another towel. “She has all her fingers and toes and a good, strong heartbeat. Her lungs are clean and clear. Her eyes are responding to stimulation. Everything seems perfect.”
The baby screams at them in protest of being wiped down again by Simon. Its sleep was just interrupted to be brought into this loud, cold, annoying world.
A few moments later, Samantha brings the baby over to Reagan and places her down into her arms.
“Our little alien invader,” John says, tears now slipping loose. He quickly whisks them away and smiles proudly at her.
Reagan looks down at the swaddled bundle lying in the crook of her arm. All this time, she never knew. She never understood what her sisters, mother, or Grams went through and what they felt in this moment.
“Don’t call her that,” Reagan reprimands her husband softly. “She’s not that anymore. She’s our baby girl.”
John kisses her forehead, smiling broadly, but Reagan can’t seem to stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks at the wonder and incomprehensible feelings that are washing over her. The baby stares at her in the same manner.
“Hello,” she says to the baby, who blinks slowly. The infant stops crying the moment Reagan speaks. It makes Reagan smile. This is what she’s been waiting for her whole life. She’d thought it was John. Now she knows that he’s just the icing on the cake. This baby girl was what she was meant to do with her life. Bringing this little life into the world was her real destiny, not being a famous doctor or discovering new surgical techniques or curing some disease. This little girl was her destiny.
“Another contraction, Reagan,” Simon says to her and nods to Sam, who takes the baby and gives her to John.
“Why don’t you help me over here with her, John?” Sam suggests, leading him away.
The afterbirth is even more painful to expel, but then it is over, and Reagan wants the baby back in her arms. Suddenly they feel empty without her resting there.
A few minutes later after Simon has finished cleaning her
and placing warm, sterile towels under her and packing similar rags against her, Reagan is covered with a blanket and finally able to rest a moment. The room that was just moments ago stifling and hot now feels freezing cold. Her body is shaking terribly. Sam brings another warm blanket over and covers her. Reagan smiles, which Sam returns and kisses her forehead.
“You did so great,” Sam praises as she presses two fingertips to her wrist for a pulse.
“You guys did great. I couldn’t have done this without you two.”
Sam gets tears in her eyes and walks away. Simon adjusts her bed, folds the stirrups back under and raises the bottom again so that she can place her legs down more comfortably. Sam returns with John, who is carrying the baby. He immediately places her down beside Reagan again.
Simon dictates from her chart, “Born at 3:20 a.m. Five pounds, nine ounces. Seventeen and one-quarter inches. I’m not sure she was all that early, Reagan. Perhaps your week of conception was off a little. She’s an awfully good birthweight for being so early, which leads me to believe that she isn’t as early as you suspected.”
Reagan barely hears him. This is the most important stuff of a baby’s birth- the weight, length, lung function, vitals, responses to stimuli. Or at least that’s what used to be the most important to her. Now, all she wants to do is cuddle her new daughter. She can’t seem to stop kissing her downy forehead. She smells strange, not in a bad way, just different, odd. Perhaps it is purity, the only truly pure thing left on this planet.
Sue and Hannah come in a moment later, and new tears of joy are sprung, this time by her sisters. Hannah touches the baby, feeling every little crevice and detail of her fingers, toes, and face.
“Oh, she has a little hair,” Hannah comments. “What color is it?”
“Dark brown,” John tells her.
“Weird,” Sue says.
John smiles and announces, “My mother had dark hair.”
“So did ours,” Sue tells him. “That’s where I got it.”
Hannah kisses Reagan on the cheek and smiles. Reagan touches her hand to her sister’s own soft cheek and returns the smile.
“What are you going to name her, guys?” Sue asks with excitement.