Page 102 of Pregnant in Plaid

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"Soon. I promise."

Twenty minutes later—twenty minutes that feel like twenty hours—Dr. Martinez is back, and this time she's setting up equipment.

"Ten centimeters," she announces. "Patrice, on the next contraction, I want you to push."

"What?" Patrice's eyes go wide. "Now? Already?"

"Now."

"But I'm not ready!"

"Nobody ever is," Dr. Martinez says calmly. "You've got this."

The next contraction builds, and Dr. Martinez coaches Patrice through it. "Big breath in, hold it, and push. Good. Keep going. Just like that."

Patrice pushes, her face going red with effort, and I hold her hand and tell her she's amazing, she's doing great, just a little more.

"I can't," she gasps between pushes.

"You can. You are."

"I hate you right now."

"I know."

"This is all your fault."

"I know that too."

"Good." She pushes again, and this time she screams.

Dr. Martinez looks up with a smile. "I can see the head! Patrice, one more big push!"

"I can't?—"

"You can. Come on, one more."

Patrice gathers herself, and with a sound somewhere between a scream and a battle cry, she pushes.

And then?—

A cry.

Tiny and angry and absolutely perfect.

"It's a girl!" Dr. Martinez lifts the baby up, and she's so small, so impossibly small, but she's here. She's alive. She's crying.

"Is she okay?" Patrice sobs. "Is she?—"

"She's breathing on her own. Good color." Dr. Martinez hands the baby to a waiting nurse. "But because she's premature, we need to get her to the NICU for evaluation."

I catch a glimpse—just a glimpse—of our daughter. Red and wrinkled and furious at the world. Perfect in every way.

The NICU team works quickly, efficiently, and then she's gone, wheeled away in an incubator before I've had time to fully process that she exists.

Patrice is crying, and I'm crying, and I lean down and kiss her, tasting salt and exhaustion and something that might be hope.

"We have a daughter," she whispers.

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