Page 41 of For Her

I wipe the tears from my eyes and take a deep breath, smiling at Jack.

“Are you okay, Sweetheart? Do you feel better?”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“I love you,” he returns with his hand on my belly. “Both of you. And we’re going to get through this together.”

Jack

My chest is being ripped open as I watch Mayzie’s face crumple in pain when another contraction hits. She’s been at this for hours. Her two favorite labor positions are being crouched over the bed in the birthing suite while I vigorously rub her back, and the other is standing with her head to my chest while she grips my waist and I rub her shoulders and sway us slowly back and forth.

It's getting increasingly more difficult for her to breathe through them, and she’s grunting and moaning more than she was when we first got here.

“Uggghhhh, I feel like a big black hole is opening up inside of me!” she screams out.

“That’s kind of what’s happening,” the nurse offers unhelpfully.

“Not helping!” Mayzie’s head whips in her direction with her teeth gnashed. The nurse pays no notice to Mayzie’s wolverine impression, likely having seen it all.

“Oh my God, my hips feel like they’re going to shatter!” Mayzie cries, several strands of hair falling in her face.

“Baby, sit down,” I gently order her. She takes a seat on her big silver rubber ball and slumps her upper body against the bed. I gently maneuver her so that I can sit down in front of her and let her lie against my lap and take the tie out of her hair. She continues to pant and gasp for air as these damn contractions aren’t giving her enough of a respite to catch up anymore.

“What are you doing?” she chokes out as I start braiding the front strands of her hair.

“Getting your hair out of your face for you. You’re doing all the work here, I’m feeling useless, but I can do this.”

“How do you know how to braid?”

“Two sisters,” I remind her. Once I have the pesky front strands out of her face and secured, I gather the rest of her hair in a ponytail. My hands go to her bare shoulders and start massaging the tight muscles.

“That feels so good; could you do that to my hips?”

“Anything you want, Sweetheart.”

I hear a feeble sigh of relief escape her as I firmly grip and knead the tissue of her back down by her hips for the next little while until the nurse comes in to check our progress.

When the nurse measures her at seven centimeters and tells us she’s progressing steadily, she tells us Mayzie can get in the birthing tub. Once she’s changed into a bikini and is sitting in the warm water, Maze continues to blow my mind. She rests her head back on the edge and closes her eyes, focusing on her breathing. I crouch down behind her and just run my hand over her head in slow, repetitive movements, just waiting for her to need me for anything else.

“The water helping, Baby?” I ask in her ear after she gets herself through another contraction. They’re definitely getting longer and closer together.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “It’s like the lack of gravity makes it less intense.”

And in case you’re wondering, no I’m not having sympathy contractions, thank God. My girl is handling them far better than I ever would.

For the next little while, things are remarkably calm, until they’re not. Mayzie’s serene, calm expression tightens in pain and her breathing goes from deep to rapid and shallow before she lets out an earsplitting cry.

“Oh my God!” she wails between gasps. “Oh my God, the pressure!”

“You’re probably in transition,” the nurse suggests as she snaps on a glove and comes over to the tub. She reaches beneath the water and after a moment, nods as she pulls her hand out. “Yep, Mayzie, that was the baby moving down into the birth canal. I can feel his head and you’re almost fully dilated. I’m going to page Dr. Whitman. It’s almost time.”

Her update is met with a huge, moaning exhale from Mayzie as the contraction wanes.

For the next ten minutes, I watch Mayzie take a monstrous beat-down, and the only solace I can offer her and myself is that we’re going to meet our son any minute.

Mayzie’s brow has a sheen of sweat, and her body is racked with shallow, violent breaths, and my heart momentarily leaps in my chest when the door swings open, triggering a rush of relief that is immediately stalled by the confusion when instead of Dr.Whitman, I see my sister dressed in lavender-colored scrubs. She tries to look professional and all-business as she strolls in, putting her dark hair up in a ponytail, but I grew up with her, and I know by the set of her jaw that she’s uncomfortable with something.

“Hi, guys!” she greets with faux enthusiasm. “I hear we’re fully dilated, my nephew’s about to arrive! Mayzie! You look amazing, and I hear you’ve been kicking some child birth ass…” she rambles as she walks up to the birthing tub.

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