Page 75 of Best Friends
I start to tell him I’m proud of him too, but another contraction hits and all I can do is squeeze his hand and try not to scream. I swear, from the tortured look on his face, he’s suffering every contraction with me. Even though he can’t stop my pain, just having him near me comforts me. His scent and soothing voice help focus me.
By 6:00 a.m., I’m dilated to seven centimeters and it’s time for my epidural. The anesthesiologist, a calm woman named Dr. Patel, explains the procedure while I try to hold still through another contraction.
“This might sting a bit,” she warns, and then there’s pressure in my back and a strange tingling sensation.
Within twenty minutes, the relief is incredible. I can still feel pressure and the tightening of contractions, but the sharp, breath-stealing pain is gone.
“Better?” Malcolm asks, smoothing my sweaty hair back from my forehead.
“So much better,” I breathe, finally able to relax between contractions.
Dr. Harrison arrives around 8:00 a.m., looking fresh and professional despite the early hour. “How are we doing?” he asks, washing his hands at the sink.
“Better since I got my epidural,” I tell him. “Ready for this to be over.”
“Don’t blame you one bit.” He pulls on gloves and checks my progress. “Nine centimeters. Almost there. Another hour or two and you’ll be ready to push.”
Two hours. I can do two more hours.
Malcolm dozes fitfully in the chair beside my bed, jerking awake every time I make a sound. I watch him sleep and think about how everything is about to change. In a few hours, we won’t just be Carrick and Malcolm anymore. We’ll be parents. That’s such a surreal thought. I don’t feel mature enough to be a parent. I still don’t have so many things figured out in life.
Around 10:30 a.m. the pressure between my legs becomes overwhelming, despite the epidural. I grip the side of the bed and groan, “I… I think I need to push.”
Linda checks me quickly. “Ten centimeters. You’re ready. Let me get Dr. Harrison.”
Everything happens quickly after that. The room fills with people—Dr. Harrison, Linda, another nurse, and a pediatrician who’ll check the baby after delivery. The lights get brighter, and someone adjusts the bed so I’m sitting more upright, feet in the stirrups.
“Okay, Carrick,” Dr. Harrison says, positioned between my legs. “On the next contraction, I want you to take a deep breath and push for ten seconds.”
Malcolm grips my hand, his face pale but determined. “You can do it, C.,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”
The contraction builds, and I bear down with everything I have. It’s exhausting work, even with the epidural, and sweat drips down my face.
“Great job,” Dr. Harrison encourages. “I can see the head. One more push like that.”
I push again, and again, losing track of time and everything except the overwhelming need to get this baby out. Malcolmcounts for me, his voice steady and strong. He trusts me to get this done and I want to make him proud.
“The head’s out,” Dr. Harrison announces. “One more push for the shoulders.”
I push with everything I have left, muscles straining, lungs burning, and suddenly there’s a rush of relief and the sound of a baby crying fills the room.
“It’s a boy,” Dr. Harrison says triumphantly, lifting our son up so we can see him. “A beautiful, healthy boy.”
“A boy?” I whimper, exhausted but happy. “I had a feeling it was a boy.”
The infant is covered in blood and vernix, his face red and wrinkled, and he’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. The nurse has Malcolm cut the umbilical cord, and the pediatrician takes the infant to clean him up and check him over.
“The baby’s okay?” Malcolm asks, his voice choked with emotion as he hovers.
“He’s perfect,” the pediatrician confirms. “Good lungs, good color. A little early but everything looks great.”
They place him on my chest, skin to skin, and I’m overwhelmed by the weight and warmth of him. He’s so small, so fragile, but his grip is strong when he wraps his tiny fingers around mine.
“Hi, beautiful boy,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face.
Malcolm leans over us both, his own eyes wet with tears. “He’s so small,” he says wonderingly. “Look at his little feet.”
Our son opens his eyes, blinking up at us with that unfocused newborn stare. His hair is dark like Malcolm’s, and he has the most perfect little nose.
