Page 114 of Ruck Me

“What?” I asked, my brain foggy with adrenaline and confusion.

Still, I’d manage to catch her reference to Aoife being my wife. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out if I’d said that or if it was just an assumption on their part. That’s when I remembered Sophie telling the medics we were married. I didn’t know why she’d done that, but I wasn’t about to correct the mistakenow.

The nurse’s eyes fell to my arms. “We need to get you cleaned up first,” she said gently, leading me down the hall to a room lined with stainless steel sinks and other hospital equipment.

In my haste to see to Aoife, I’d forgotten all about my torn up hands, the nail ripped clean off one of my fingers—but I remembered now. When the scalding hot water washed over the cuts, I sucked in a breath and winced but kept on scrubbing. A little pain wasn’t going to stop me from getting to Aoife and myboy.

A doctored entered the room and did a double take when he saw me pulling on the blue hospital gown to cover my bloody clothes. “Mr. McGrath, I’m Dr. James.,” he said, recovering from his shock of seeing me in his hospital. Up until now, I hadn’t thought about having to protect our privacy, but it was evident from his reaction he'd recognized me. I knew hospitals had laws around revealing patient identities, but I also knew they didn’t always keep tothem.

“Dr. James,” I said with a stern nod, pushing that fear aside for the moment. Right now I had bigger worries to consider. “How’s Aoife?”

“Your wife is in pre-term labor. She’s in stable condition, and we’re monitoring the baby’s vitals. Ideally, we’d like him to stay put a little while longer, so we’re doing what we can to make that happen.”

“You said Aoife’s in stable condition, but you’re only monitoring him. Why’sthat?”

“As you know, Aoife’s just under 34 weeks pregnant. We consider a baby full term at 37 weeks but prefer delivering closer to forty. Your boy is small, but well within the safe zone. Those born near to 34 weeks have a strong rate of survival,” he said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “We’re monitoring Aoife’s labor progress, and if the baby’s vitals stay within that safe zone, he should be okay. Until she gives birth though, I can only offer conjecture. We’ll know more once he’sborn.”

I swallowed down my fear. “Is there a possibility he won’t makeit?”

Dr. James stared at me, his face blank. In his line of work, he couldn’t afford to show even the slightest bit of indecision of fear. It was a concept I was familiar with, but for an entirely different reason. I didn’t know if he understood that or what, but he nodded and stepped closer. Guiding me to the corner of the room, he said, “I wouldn’t usually say one way or the other, but I’ll tell you what—if I was a betting man, I’d say in about ten years or so, you’ll be cheering on the lad from the sidelines.”

Oxygen rushed from my lungs, and I felt my legs nearly give out. I slapped my hand against the wall to hold my weight, the doctor’s words causing my limbs to tremble with relief. I’d already almost lost him once. The idea of doing so now, after everything Aoife and I been through, was more than I could take. “Thank you,” I breathed out with overwhelming gratitude.

He clapped me on the back. “They’re both strong, Eoin. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to Nurse O’Connor while I go check on Aoife’s progress.”

Four hours later and our little man had no intention of staying put. Aoife had been pushing for 45 minutes, and the nurse said she was close. “Two more big pushes, love. You’re almost there.”

Standing beside Aoife, she gripped my hand, her nails digging moon-shaped crescents into my skin. With one final wail, she bore down and pushed with every last bit of strength left in her tiny body. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,” she screamed, and I fought every instinct to try and physically protect her—somehow. I bit down on my cheek and forced myself not to interfere. Aoife was in pain, her body pushed to its limit, and all I could do was offer her moral support and words of encouragement. I would have gladly taken every ounce of her pain into my own body if I could have, but instead, I sat there helpless, waiting.

My eyes found hers. “You’re doing so good, baby,” I cooed as I wiped tears from her cheeks. “Just one more. You can doit.”

“I can’t,” she cried, her body shuddering under the strain ofpain.

“You can,” I encouraged. “You are unbelievable.” I kissed her lips. “Just one more and it’ll all beover.”

“I’m never doing this again,” she pledged as she grabbed hold of my forearm and clenched it tight. Our eyes locked on one another, she gritted her teeth and with a guttural moan, pushed for all she was worth, her body shaking and her face mottled with effort.

“That’s it. Keep going. Just a couple more seconds and it’ll all beover.”

True to my word, a few moments later, the doctor pulled a tiny baby from Aoife’s body. Immediately, the nurses got to work making sure everything was okay with our little man. They’d told us what to expect, but that hadn't lessened my fear. We hadn’t heard him cry yet and even though we’d known he was going to be small, he was even tinier than I had imagined.

Wrung out, Aoife collapsed back onto the mattress. “Is everything okay?” she asked, turning her head to me. I forced my eyes away from the nurses working on our baby across the room and met her stare. I wanted to tell her it was, say that everything was perfect, but I just didn’t know. For several long seconds—each one feeling like a lifetime—our eyes held as I watched all the emotions I was felt inside cross Aoife’s face too. And then we heard it, a high pitched, angry wail and my shoulders sagged with relief and Aoife started sobbing.

Another nurse approached the end of the bed and explained what would occur next. As they cared for her and cleaned her up, I kept half my attention focused on Aoife and the other half on what was happening across the room. No one seemed panicked, so that gave me some small measure of comfort. Just when I didn’t think I could take another second of this weighty anticipation, Dr. James approached.

“You’re going to want to give your son a name,” he said with a happy smile.

“He’s okay?” Aoife asked, her voice trembling.

“He’s a strong lad. A little scrawny, but yes, he’s okay.” His eyes found mine. “But maybe no rugby for awhile.”

I laughed, happy tears leaking from my eyes as I brought Aoife’s hand to my mouth and kissed her palm. With my whole body trembling with emotion, I leaned down and kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, and then her lips. “I love you so much,” I said, my chest tight.

Aoife’s small hand found my face, and I leaned into her caress. “Niall Jamesthen?”

We’d been tossing names out for weeks, trying to agree on one we both liked, until a couple of days ago we’d settled on something pretty traditional: Niall for my father and James for hers. I nodded, and we turned back to Dr. James. “Niall James McGrath, itis.”

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