This is Part 2. Part 1 is here. Yes, I invented a totally unnecessary cliffhanger for a three-year-old story. What a dick, right?

I want to say that although I respect that every relationship is different and cultural norms vary across our planet, I cannot understand the person who, when able to choose, makes the decision not to actively participate–with the mother–in the birth of their child. I haven’t heard an excuse that makes any sense to me. I absolutely could not have been anywhere else but beside Heather, holding her hand, my energy centered on the event with all the focus of a laser beam that has impregnated someone. There was no other option.

Still, you can’t blame me for also being very hungry.

My future brother-in-law, Jake, was on standby with the circus of family members that by this point had pitched their tent in the waiting area at Northside. He poked his head in¹ and announced he was picking up breakfast. McDonald’s.

“I’d love a Sausage McMuffin with Egg, please².

Off he went.

7:16am

There was a knock at the door. “Knock” is a pretty charitable way to put it. We really could have been forgiven for thinking that maybe what we heard was someone glaring angrily at the door of our delivery room on their way down the hall. Timid. The door opened a crack and I saw a bag of obsequiousness holding a bag of breakfast. It’s so rewarding to have such a great brother-in-law, I thought, as I snatched the bag from him and closed the door. I then considered the fact that food, especially fast food, was likely to provoke either desperate jealousy or further nausea in Heather. I decided, rat-like, to scurry to the outskirts of the room to eat, putting as much distance as I could between the food and her nose.³ After wolfing down the McMuffin between contractions, I found in the bag and immediately ate what my overtaxed brain told me was a Bonus! Biscuit! but what Jake later told me was His! Breakfast! Oops. Sorry, Jake.

I brushed off crumbs both ill-gotten and not, cleansed my hands with the ubiquitous antibacterial hospital foam, and returned to Heather’s side for the next round of contractions.

9:00am

There at her side I had now been standing, on and off, for about nine hours. Progress had been great for roughly the first half of labor, but at some point, the mood in the room became decidedly… less great. Talk of “deceleration” and “infection” had started to dominate. The baby’s heart rate had been declining with each contraction and the doctor had ordered an OR prepared for a Caesarean.

“We’re still waiting on someone to perform the C-section. Let’s try to push a little more. I can try to assist the baby’s progress with a vacuum extractor.”

Here’s a photo of one.

If you stare at it long enough, you can probably figure out which part does what and gets shoved where. The vacuum extractor is used to “assist” labor that is not progressing as doctors and, I suppose, statisticians, would say it should be progressing. The doctor ended his pitch with a caveat: “We tend to recommend it–though it has its risks–when we feel its use will be less risky than a Caesarian.” For me, the appearance or explanation of the device’s purpose and function were not at all troubling. I was troubled by that little speed bump in the middle of his sentence. I sputtered, unable to think of any risks that would be minor enough to rationalize accepting them, but I eventually realized that A) there didn’t exist a third, even less risky option and B) it wasn’t even my decision in the first place. OK, we’ll try it.

So, with each contraction, there was a bit of a rigmarole. We’d watch the monitor–the waning epidural still impeding Heather’s full consciousness of this ebb and flow–and when we saw a peak, the doctor would spit out “Now?” Heather would nod as she clenched down, eyes closed, holding my hand and the bed rails and pushing. Pushing while the doctor used the vacuum to pull. That must be an odd sensation.⁴

This went on for a while. Heart rate: still decelerating. Progress: still none. After a few more futile series of contractions and attempts, the doctor wiped his brow and indicated that the C-section was probably the only option at this point.

“But maybe we can try one more time while we wait for that option to be ready.”

9:55am

Another push. The doctor bore down on the device and finally, mercifully, the soggy, puffy head started to move out and everything seemed to yield. The baby was coming out.

And the clock stopped.

This was it. My heart was racing. I could hear nothing in the room; the world fell silent and went into slow motion. I locked eyes with Heather for a split second, her face contorted but incredibly purposeful. She was as amazing to me in that moment as she’s ever been. Gripping my hand and her leg at the same time, she bore down and I watched as our baby’s head came into sight, followed in one quick slosh by the rest of her squishy, tiny, pink body.

For about two seconds, none of us breathed. In a day of unprecedented moments, this one took the top prize. I may never feel that same combination of awe, terror, hope, and anticipation again. Floating on those two seconds was a truckload of raw emotion: the buoyant accumulation of the agonizing hours that preceded the birth, the careful months that preceded the delivery, and the happy, busy years that preceded the pregnancy. Even after being deprived of sleep all night and pouring ourselves into the task at hand, there was an irreproducible electricity in the air, in everyone in the room. We’d done everything we knew how to do, and many things we didn’t, and now we had brought a new life into the world.

Now she just had to breathe.

Madeline took a frantic, desperate gasp of a breath, and let out an absolutely penetrating scream.

And the clock started again.

The cry was loud, healthy, and heart-wrenchingly satisfying. Our child taking her first breath–and immediately expending it–was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s not a moment I can even fully explain, but I know that it changed me, as cloying as that may sound. Holding Heather’s hand tight, I saw and heard our baby come into existence before our eyes, and I was immediately overwhelmed with emotion. It’s hard not to get choked up even now, just thinking about it.⁵

As Heather caught her breath and I tried to wipe the tears from my eyes, the doctor looked up and said–as if he had just realized it himself–“Congratulations… You’re not pregnant anymore!” Heather offered up a weak smile and slumped back in the bed. I kissed her on the mouth, then pressed my forehead against hers, unable to say anything at all.

1. Actually, three years later, I am pretty sure it was my sister-in-law, now his wife, who did the poking. I’m not sure Jake had ever been in a delivery room before and he was… timid, to understate the matter by a mile. [↩]
2. I don’t think I said “please”. [↩]
3. I decided against eating in the en suite bathroom because I do not eat in bathrooms. Nor should you! [↩]
4. I mean of course that the whole process must be a series of unbelievably excruciating sensations but the push/pull thing is even crazier. [↩]
5. Since that day I have not watched a single birthing scene in a movie or TV show, real or staged, comedy or drama, without tearing up just at the moment the baby cries. I don’t think that’ll ever change. [↩]