by M. E. Carter
Denise: How are you feeling honey?
Gotta love my mother-in-law. She’s been checking on me every day but is very careful not to be intrusive. I know she’s almost as anxious to meet her grandbaby as I am, so I appreciate that for the most part she holds herself back and sticks to one or two texts a day. Unlike her only son who is driving me bat-shit crazy, calling whenever he has a break during practice and swinging by here to check on me. Yes, he brings me food, but I know that’s just a cover. What he’s really doing is making sure I haven’t gone into labor without him. I let it slide because of the ginger cookies.
Me: Like if your son ever comes near me again, I’ll castrate him.
Probably not the best way of expressing my feelings to my mother-in-law, but at this point, I’m beyond caring.
Almost immediately, my phone rings. Muttering curses under my breath about Rowen checking on me, again, I’m pleasantly surprised to see it’s Denise.
“Hi Denise.” As cranky as I am, I’m glad to have an excuse to close my eyes and rub my forehead. I’ve had a slight headache for a couple days now.
“Oh honey, you don’t sound good.”
Wow. My mood must be really bad if she can hear it through the phone.
“Sorry. You’re not the first one to tell me I sound cranky today.” Caleb looks at me over his shoulder and laughs. I return his laugh with a glare that makes him laugh even harder. Asshole.
“No, it’s not your mood,” Denise clarifies. “You just don’t sound right. I can’t describe it. How are you physically?”
“Eh,” I shrug and rest the phone on my shoulder, making it easier to jot down the double that just put the Astros in a really bad position on this game. The bases are loaded at the bottom of the ninth in a tied game. Not good for them at all. “My back is aching. I’ve thrown up a couple times. Oh, and I can’t get rid of this damn headache. It’s not horrible, it’s just annoying.”
“Hmm. Tell me about the backache.”
“What about it?”
Done with my notes, I use my free hand to check to make sure the heating pad I’m leaning against is still on and rub the spot at the base of my spine again. So annoying.
“Is it an ache or a sharp pain? Does it come and go?”
I think for a second trying to decide. “I don’t really know. I haven’t thought about it. I just notice it sometimes. The heating pad was helping for a while, but I’m not sure it’s doing much good anymore.”
The only response she gives is “hmm,” which makes me take notice. Denise isn’t a “hmm” kind of person. Usually she comes right out with whatever she’s thinking, in her own non-confrontational way.
“What does ‘hmm’ mean? What are you thinking?”
“Oh, I just wonder if you’re having back labor.”
Her assessment makes me pause, mid-type. I hadn’t thought of that before, but it might make sense. I’ve been having the pain for a couple of days, and it seems to be getting worse.
“I take it by your silence you’re starting to wonder the same thing.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. But how will I know for sure?”
She laughs lightly, but I don’t feel like it’s at me. At least I hope not. “Early labor is really hard to detect. Once you’re in hard labor, you will absolutely know. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to get off with an easy delivery.”
“Not with the way things have been going,” I mutter.
“You have had a rough go of it,” she agrees. “I think the other symptoms showing up today combined with the back pain may mean things are starting to happen.”
“God, I hope so,” I huff out. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“Oh honey, you’re going to find out you can take so much more than you realize. Welcome to motherhood.”
I grunt my thanks, noncommittally, just before Caleb jumps up from his chair, cheering for a third strike out, moving this game right back into the grasp of his beloved team at the top of the tenth.
“Anyway, I can tell by the cheering that you’re busy. I’ll let you get back to work. But Tiffany, start trying to figure out if there is a pattern to the back pain. If it spikes and recedes. That type of thing.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I will,” I agree. “Thanks for mentioning it.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up, to carry on with our day. For the next few hours, I pay closer attention to my body, and as it turns out, she’s right. For the most part, my back pain is an annoying ache, but about every five minutes, it cranks up a notch to the point where I’m rubbing it. And that’s when I need to sniff my lemon the most too.
Unfortunately, by the time the six o’clock newscast is over and we’re turning on the Texans preseason game, even the lemon isn’t working.
Breathing deeply through my nose, I close my eyes and hold my hands on my stomach, willing it to calm down. The baby isn’t making things any better, though, as he wiggles and moves around. Very quickly, I realize I’m fighting a losing battle. Grabbing my trash can because there’s no time to make it to the restroom, I throw up.
And throw up.
And throw up.
There’s no way this can get worse. Until it does.
Feeling a gush of water, I realize I’m not only puking in front of Caleb and Mannie, our sports anchor who just made a food run, my bladder finally gave out and I’m peeing all over myself.
Finally, my stomach stops revolting, but my embarrassment remains.
“Tiffany?” Caleb says quietly. “Are you okay?”
Refusing to look at him, I tie the bag of my trash can together, thankful I don’t have to go dump puke into the toilet and clean the can out. “I’m more embarrassed right now that I think I have ever been.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. But I think you need to call Rowen.”
Glaring up at him and avoiding eye contact with Mannie now, I snark, “Why? So I can tell him I just peed all over the office?”
Caleb’s eyebrows rise just slightly.
“Um, Tiffany, I don’t think that’s pee,” Mannie says.
Looking over at him finally, I try to figure out what he’s talking about. He gestures to my lap.
“Tiff, I think your water broke.”
Assessing how my body feels, I realize, he might be right. A quick Kegel confirms I do, in fact, still need to actually go. Just as quickly as I figure that out, a back spasm hits me so hard, I hiss in a breath and begin kneading my spine.
“Oh yeah. You’re definitely in labor,” Mannie adds.
“She’s in labor.” Caleb’s face pales. “What do we do?”
Mannie claps him on the shoulder, calming him before the pending freak-out happens. Thank God. That’s the last thing I want to deal with. “You get to call maintenance and have them come up here to clean up. Then you get to finish writing the show and take over for her. Sounds good?” Caleb nods and stumbles as he heads to his desk to find the number he needs.
Turning to me, Mannie kneels down, careful to not drop his knees in the fluid. “Do you want me to call Rowen? Or I could call an ambulance. It’s whatever you want.”
Cocking my head, I eye him critically. “Why are you calm?”
He chuckles lightly. “Before I decided I wanted to be a sports anchor, I was pre-med for a couple years and worked as an overnight orderly for a small hospital. You’d be surprised how many times I’ve done this.”
Well, color me surprised. “How did I not know this about you?”
He shrugs. “It never came up. But it sure comes in handy now. For instance, I know that it’s probably going to be at least a couple hours until this baby is born, so there isn’t a reason to freak out. But we do need to get going. Who do you want me to call?”
I open my mouth to tell him to call Rowen, but something stops me. He’s been on edge this whole pregnancy, and I know he’s about to panic. As rude as it sounds, I just don’t have it in me to try and calm my husband down while dealing with the physical issues as well. He�
�s going to have to wait.
“Can you hand me my phone? I think the best person to drive me to the hospital right now is my mother-in-law.”
Mannie smiles in understanding. “Yeah, I’ve seen that a few times too. Probably a smart idea.”
Handing me the device, he gets to his feet to talk Caleb off the ledge again and help coordinate the maternity plan HR helped us put in place. Poor guy’s hair is already standing on end from running his fingers through it. Tonight’s show is going to be interesting, especially behind the scenes.
Taking a moment to center myself before calling Denise, I let it all sink in.
I’m about to have a baby. I wasn’t sure I wanted this at the beginning, but suddenly, I’m really excited.
I’m going to be a mom.
When my mam stopped by my place at dinnertime, I thought she was dropping off more food for my wife. I took the opportunity to show her the nursery that was finally complete. Tiffany eventually decided the elephant theme was kind of cute, which made it easier to pick out paint colors and furniture for our former office space. I think it turned out great.
Light gray walls with a white crib and matching dresser, a few stuffed animals and cardboard books ready for when he’s old enough to play with them, and a white wooden rocking chair with grey and white striped cushions. It’s calm and soothing and ready for my son to grow up in.
My mam agreed it turned out nicely. Then she told me to grab Tiffany’s hospital bag because it was time to bring that son into the world.
Needless to say, my first instinct was to race out the front door for my car. It wasn’t until I actually got to said car that I realized I didn’t have the hospital bag. Or the car keys. Or even shoes. At that point, it made sense to why Mam just showed up instead of calling.
Fortunately, the two most important women in my life conspired against me and decided to pick Tiffany up first, thereby reducing the amount of time I knew she was in labor before making it to the hospital. It was the longest twenty-minute drive of my life, and I’m almost positive I was almost punched in the junk twice for hovering over Tiffany.
In hindsight, I have no idea how they both were so calm, but I guess that’s the difference between first-time moms and first-time dads. I literally have no way to gauge what’s happening in her body. The baby could fall right out without me realizing it’s coming, so that’s what I always plan for. She, on the other hand, feels everything and can tell exactly where he is at all times.
Also, I might be a little more like my Da than I realized. They didn’t bother to call him at all until Tiffany was safely admitted and settled in. It’s a good thing too. We’re already eight hours into this endeavor and nothing has happened yet. Well, Tiffany’s mom FaceTimed in for a few and Da caused a ruckus in the hall trying to find us. But that’s been the most excitement we’ve had.
I was warned that labor could take a long time. I just had no idea it would be this long.
“Ooooh, not again….” Tiffany groans, and I lean forward to rub her lower back. When we first got here, she tried to lie down and nap, but her back labor kept her from getting comfortable. For a while, we decided to walk. It helped a bit, but not enough. Now she’s trying a birthing ball in the hopes Baby Flanigan will move down a bit and make an appearance.
“A little to the left,” she directs, and I move my thumbs where she wants them. We’ve been at this for eight hours and my wife looks beautiful, but she also looks rough. Her dark hair is up in a messy bun that’s got more mess than bun at this point. Remnants of yesterday’s makeup are faintly smeared on her sweaty face, even after using wipes to remove as much as possible. She’s wearing a black sports bra under the hospital gown and brown hospital socks. I know she feels sweaty and dirty. But mostly she feels pain.
“Ooooh… Stop rubbing,” she demands and grabs my hand to squeeze, leaning her head on the rolling table in front of her.
“Breath through it, baby,” I say gently. “I got you.”
She does as I say, moaning through most of the contraction, and squeezing my fingers as tightly as possible. I hate seeing her like this. Hate seeing her in so much pain that never seems to end. If I could change places with her, I would in a heartbeat. But I can’t. The best I can do is try to stay calm and follow her lead. Right now, she wants me behind her, rubbing her lower back while she sits on the ball, so that’s what I do.
Eventually, she relaxes a bit.
“Thirty-eight seconds.” I have never had more appreciation for my mother than I do now. She’s been with us the whole time, timing contractions, while quietly reading her book.
“How far apart was that one?” I ask, wondering once again how long until Tiffany will be out of so much pain and still not totally sure why she is refusing an epidural.
“A little over three minutes. We’re getting there.”
“Not fast enough,” Tiffany groans, and leans back against me.
Wrapping my arms around her waist, I feel her stomach. It’s hard as a rock. No wonder she’s hurting so badly. Giving her a quick kiss on her neck, I let her relax in my arms, hoping I’m able to give her even a small reprieve from the pain. Just as her breathing begins to slow down like she’s dozing off, she sits back up.
“Oooooh… Not again.” She grabs both my hands and squeezes tightly, trying to breathe through it. The on-call doctor who has been here all night walks through the door at some point and speaks quietly to my mother, while I whisper what I hope are comforting words to my wife as she powers through yet another contraction.
When she begins to relax, the doctor heads to check the monitor next to the bed.
“How are we doing?” Even though the doctor is kind about it, I know Tiffany is irritated by the question. It’s three in the morning and she’s been having back contractions less than five minutes apart for the last eight hours. The answer is pretty obvious.
“Like all of my insides are trying to be ripped out of my body.”
Making quick work of washing her hands, the doctor grabs some rubber gloves. “Well let’s see if we can’t get an estimate on how much longer we have, shall we? Can you hop up on this bed for me?”
Tiffany laughs humorlessly. “No. But I can do my best to climb up there.”
“Good enough for me.”
I help Tiffany get on the bed, taking a break when another contraction hits, and do my best to settle her. I’m exhausted from being up all night, but it’s nothing compared to what she’s going through. I understand why men in decades past stayed in the waiting rooms during this process. I feel so helpless.
Tiffany tenses and grabs my hand when the doctor puts her hand between her legs to check on her progress. I watch the doctor’s face closely, looking for any indication that we’re almost done, but what I see isn’t encouraging. She doesn’t look how I imagine a doctor getting ready to deliver a baby would be. There’s no sense of urgency. She doesn’t tell the nurse to get more supplies or more people. She just peels her gloves off and washes her hands.
“It’s been about eight hours since your water broke, right?”
Tiffany and I nod in unison, both anxious to hear what she has to say. Unfortunately, for us, she sighs in response.
“You’re only dilated to about a two right now.”
Tiffany’s eyes widen. “That’s it?”
The doctor nods and crosses her arms as she leans against the counter. “That’s it. I know you don’t want any drugs if you can help it, but I really think we need to start you on some Pitocin to get things moving. If you were progressing faster, I wouldn’t suggest it, but I think your body might need a little bit of help.”
Tiffany drops her head back on the pillow, clearly feeling defeated.
Stroking her hair back from her face, I do my best to help comfort her. “Babe, I’m worried about you. I know you don’t want to take anything, but you’ve been at this a long time. I think it’s something we need to consider at this point.”
She turns to look at me,
tears in her eyes. “I’m trying to be a good mom,” she says quietly. “I don’t want to do this wrong.”
Kissing her forehead, my heart hurts for her. I knew she was worried about how she was going to balance it all, but I didn’t realize how afraid she is. It makes sense. There have been a mass amount of huge changes in our life in a short time—marriage, her promotion, my parents moving here, a baby. Sometimes it feels like a balancing act of changes when we haven’t found our footing in our relationship yet.
Leaning my forehead against hers, I cup her cheek. “You’re already the strongest mom I know, just by getting through this pregnancy.”
She sniffs and nods. Then turning back to the doctor, she takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. But what’s going to happen?”
The doctor gestures to our nurse, whose name I also can’t remember, and she begins pulling out various tubes and needles while the doctor turns back to us.
“Since you’re in labor, the Pitocin is going to just kick it into high gear.”
“Higher gear than this?” I ask, not liking the sounds of that.
The doctor smiles kindly at me. I get the feeling she’s used to that question. “Right now, her contractions are between three and a half to four minutes apart. We want them closer to two minutes. That should trigger your cervix to start opening up to get ready for baby. Once your labor really gets rolling, we can get you an epidural if you change your mind.”
Tiffany shakes her head and watches as the nurse rubs alcohol on the top of her hand, prepping her for the needle. “Let me labor for a little longer. It could go really fast, and then there wouldn’t be a need for one, right?”
“Maybe,” the doctor says noncommittally. Somehow, I have a feeling she thinks we’re in for more long hours. “But we don’t have to decide anything right now. Let’s just see how this goes.”
Tiffany nods, not even jumping when the needle slides smoothly into her skin.
“Let’s start pit augmentation and titrate as needed until adequate,” the doctor says to the nurse. “We’ll see where her contractions are at in the next hour.”