Page 78 of Not Our First Rodeo
I look back at Elsie, relieved at how much more relaxed she looks now than she was when I walked through the door. I can’t believe my presence didthat, and it makes me want to strangle myself even more for not being here before.
“My entire family is in the waiting room,” I say.
Elsie’s eyes widen. “Why?”
A smile cracks my lips. “Because they have no sense of boundaries.”
She shakes her head, managing a smile of her own. “They should go home. I’m only a centimeter dilated. This is going to take a while.”
“I’ll try my best.”
Jade pushes to standing, reaching for Elsie’s hand to give it a squeeze. “I’ll handle them. You guys handle the having a baby part.”
“Thank you for being here.”
Jade’s expression softens. “Of course, Els. Always.” She looks at both of us in turn then. “Keep me posted, okay?”
Elsie nods. “I’ll send selfies the whole time.”
“Make sure to get one while pushing.”
“Definitely,” Elsie says with a smile.
Jade gives her hand one last squeeze before leaving.
As soon as she’s gone, Elsie’s face pinches in discomfort. She lets out a breath through her nose. “Contraction.”
Her hand tightens on mine, and I grip hers back, breathing with her, trying to funnel my strength into her as best as I can. A minute later, it’s over, and the tension releases from her body.
“I’m not a fan of those.”
“Have they given you the epidural yet?” We talked through her birth plan together and with her doctor over the last few appointments. She told the doctor she planned to get an epidural, but that she wanted to wait until her contractions were really uncomfortable.
Elsie shakes her head. “Not yet. I want to hold out a little longer.”
“Okay.” I look around the room. It’s larger than I expected and less clinical. There is, of course, all the medical equipment—thehospital bed and the monitors Elsie is hooked up to—but there’s also a couch and a chair that can convert into beds, a sink, and cabinets that I would guess hold extra linens. “What can I do?”
When I look back at Elsie, she’s smiling softly. “Nothing yet. You being here is nice enough.”
Guilt pricks through me again. “I’m sorry, Els. I hate that I wasn’t here.”
She grabs for my hand again, holding it tight as she looks into my eyes. “Don’t beat yourself up, remember? I’m just glad you’re here to do this with me now.” She pauses, her eyes going a little misty. “We’re having a baby, Beau. It’s really happening.”
All the stress and anxiety from the last few months evaporates because she’s right. We’rehere, doing it. In a day or two, we’re going to be holding our baby in our arms, looking at this perfect thing we created.
“Yeah, Els, we are.”
The next hours pass in a blur. Elsie insists I eat even though she’s not allowed to since she’s getting magnesium through an IV to prevent seizures from preeclampsia. It makes her uncomfortable and nauseous, and although the epidural she gets eventually helps with her pain, it doesn’t help with those symptoms. It makes the time pass slowly, and I hate seeing her become more and more miserable.
I text updates to my family and hers. I assure Jade that everything is progressing and let her know how far along she is after cervical checks. I ask the nurses for refills on ice chips the second Elsie finishes her cup of them and sneak bites of proteinbars when she isn’t looking, even though she’s the one who texted my mom to bring them to me.
Night falls and Elsie manages to sleep. I do too, I think, but I mostly sit in the chair and stare at her, check her monitors to make sure her blood pressure doesn’t get too high and her vitals look good. I take a photo of her in the early morning light and add it to the album I’ve been compiling for the baby. I want her to see how strong her mom is right now, when she’s doing the hardest thing she will ever do.
Throughout the morning, Elsie’s labor intensifies. The sun slants through the windows, indicating the passing of time, as we hunker down. My hand is sore from Elsie’s hold on it, but I’d let her break every bone in my hand if it brought her relief.
I don’t know what time it is when things change, when a nurse tells us Elsie is in transition. Time is moving differently, and my focus is entirely on Elsie. I don’t feel the fatigue hanging heavy on my shoulders, don’t feel the grumbling in my stomach indicating it’s been too long since I last ate a protein bar. I don’t notice anything except the sweat on Elsie’s brow, the monitor that beeps when her blood pressure goes a little higher, the way she grits her teeth at the feeling of pressure as another contraction hits.
At some point, the nurse returns, smiling, and tells us it’s time for Elsie to start pushing. It simultaneously feels like I just got here and like we’ve been in this room for weeks, waiting on this moment. Now time narrows to the seconds of pushing during contractions, the windows of time between them. I’m whispering words to Elsie, unsure fully of what I’m even saying. I tell her she’s strong. That she’s doing great. That it’s just going to take one more push until we see her.
