Page 123 of Paternal Instincts
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” the nurse announced. “We’re pretty much at ten centimeters. A tiny lip left, but one or two more contractions should do it, and we can start pushing. I’m going to get the doctor.”
The nurse vanished, and Bryn glowered. “Who does she think is pushing this baby out? ‘We’ can start pushing, she says. Ha! Bullpuckie to that. It’s gonna be all me… Oh, Mylanta. Another one already. I didn’t get a break.”
Bryn looked like she wanted to cry and dropped her head on Quaid’s shoulder, twisting to one side as she vibrated and clenched and screamed through another long contraction. Quaid braced her in his arms while I took a turn rubbing her back.
With a sudden, frantic cry, Bryn yelled, “I have to push. It’s coming. Tell them I have to push now. I can’t stop it.”
Since Quaid had Bryn in his arms, I raced for the door, shouting for help. The nurse and doctor were already on their way and picked up their pace, blasting into the room and setting up with a studious calmness that contradicted the panicked energy.
Bryn screamed that the baby was coming.
The doctor patiently told her to breathe and not push yet.
Mild-tempered Bryn, who I’d never heard use even a mild curse word, told him to fuck off and get the fucking baby out of her.
The nurse maneuvered Bryn onto her back, instructing Quaid what to do as she got Bryn’s legs in position and scooted her closer to the end of the bed.
The contraction stopped, but Bryn did not calm down. Quaid fed her ice chips as the doctor snapped on gloves and prepared the instrument tray, wheeling it beside the bed.
“When she has another contraction, you can each help hold her legs back and prop her up. Bryn, you’re going to bear down. You know what to do, sweetie.”
Delivery was a process I wasn’t prepared for. It didn’t happen quickly. It didn’t happen quietly. It didn’t happen neatly or cleanly. The strain and energy required were immense. Videos didn’t do it justice, and I had a newfound respect for every woman who had endured childbirth.
Quaid was a trooper, but I had never doubted his ability to cope. When a situation called for it, he was there. He gave everything he had and more. Dedicated. Loyal. Persistent. That was my husband. That was why I could never stay mad at him for racing after Crowley.
The moment became surreal and dreamlike. I processed it in simple snapshots, moments of sensory input my brain could handle.
I saw the strained tendons in Bryn’s neck as she worked to push our baby into the world.
I heard her grunts and shouts of effort.
I felt the heat of her sweaty palm in my hand.
I smelled antiseptics, anticipation, fear, and joy.
The cold of the paper cup of ice transferred hands as we took turns spoon-feeding Bryn during short moments of respite.
Quaid’s unwavering concentration amazed me as he spoke words of encouragement, never faltering, never breaking a sweat.
I admired the gentle way he moved the hair from Bryn’s eyes, told her she was beautiful, and thanked her for doing this for us.
The doctor’s low tenor announced the baby was crowning. “We’ve got a head full of hair.”
My heart stuttered, and for an instant, Quaid and I locked gazes to absorb that tiny detail.
The nurse’s calm tone encouraged Bryn to stop pushing so they could check to be sure the umbilical cord wasn’t around the baby’s neck.
A held breath.
A deep thrum of anticipation.
Then… a piercing wail from new lungs, expanding for the first time.
When the doctor announced, “We have a baby girl,” my vision blurred, and the world tipped on its axis.
I couldn’t stop shaking. I saw her. Squirming and flailing limbs. Purple and pink and covered in blood and discharge, but she was whole and alive and filling the room with her cries.
She was beautiful and ours.
