Page 51 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Name?” a nurse asks me while walking, because there is no time for chairs.
I answer, then add, “It’s Christmas week, right? Do you have an elf on the shelf for this floor?”
“Four,” she says, not missing a beat. “They keep falling over when the power blips.”
“Excellent,” I groan, bending into Lucas as another contraction finds me. His hand lines my spine like a track, and I breathe along it.
A room appears. It’s small and clean. It’s lit by a generator-powered lamp and the kind of grit you only find in hospitals the week before major holidays. The nurse—her badge says Kelley, RN—moves like a storm herself, efficient and compassionate without leaking an ounce of energy she needs. “Gown if you want, or keep your clothes,” she says, like a choice I’m allowed to make. “I’m going to check you so we can decide our game plan.”
Lucas positions himself at my head, not because he can’t handle the rest of me but because he knows where I want him. He whispers the count-breath he taught me in the kitchen weeks ago. I hang on it like a rope over water.
“Two and a half,” Kelley tells us after a quick check. “You came early. Good call. Too many people wait.”
“Epidural?” I ask, too hopeful.
“Anesthesiologist is on the floor,” she says. “He’s triaging. With the blizzard and the outage, it might not be immediate. But I’ll get him.”
Lucas squeezes my hand under the blanket. “We can do hard things,” he murmurs.
“Hard things should come with a coupon,” I say, and Kelley barks a laugh as she tapes the monitors to my belly. The heartbeat whooshes into the room—strong, steady, an ocean tide under fluorescent hum. I cry again, but this time the tears feel like steam off something warming, not leaking.
The next hour is a collage. Nurse Kelley coaching me to keep my jaw loose and my moans low. Lucas massaging my lower back with the heel of his hand like he’s negotiating with the pain and winning concessions. A resident popping in to say Dr. Patel is on her way but stuck behind a plow, and the anesthesiologist is working his way down the hall by headlamp. The storm outside thumps against the windows; somewhere, very faintly, someone’s phone plays “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and I swear I will never make fun of carols again.
I lose track of time. Lucas doesn’t. He advocates like he always does—polite, clear, relentless. When my contraction pattern tightens, he is ready with ice chips and a cool washcloth. When it spaces again briefly, he bribery-smiles at Kelley and asks if I can sit on the ball. She nods, and the relief is so immediate I could propose to the ball.
The anesthesiologist finally arrives, cheeks flushed, hair under a cap, headlamp making him look like a coal miner. “You must be Peanut’s mom,” he says kindly. “We’ve got generator power in this room, hallelujah.”
I want to kiss him. I do not kiss him. We do the consent and the position and Lucas becomes the human you lean on when you are asked to curl around a basketball that is also your body. The world shrinks to my breath and his voice and hands on my shoulders anchoring me to a place that isn’t pain.
When it’s done, I sag, boneless and grateful. The relief isn’t total, but it’s a lifting, a widening of the room. I can laugh again without wanting to punch the air.
“Dr. Patel is two floors down,” Kelley announces, reading a text. “She walked up the last flight because the generator elevator isgrumpy.” Bless that woman. Bless everyone who shows up in storms.
Time blurs again. Peanut’s heartbeat whooshes. Lucas counts and jokes and breathes with me, then sits in the bedside chair and strokes my hair when I drift. Snow thickens outside like someone turned up the static. The lights flicker once, and the generator grabs and holds. I say a little prayer to whoever maintains generators.
And then Dr. Patel blows in, cheeks pink, smile bright. “You couldn’t wait for a clear day?” she teases, pulling on gloves. She checks me, nods, checks again. “Okay. We’re rolling. Ten centimeters. Baby’s ready to star in their own holiday special.”
The words pass through me like a bell.
Kelley rearranges the room with the elegance of a stage manager. Lucas stands and the world narrows to his face, his voice, his hand in mine. “Eyes on me,” he says softly. “You’ve got this. I’m right here.”
I’m terrified. I tell him so in a rush whisper. “I’m so scared.”
“Me too,” he admits, and somehow that unlocks something. “But we can do this together. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s not like the movies. It’s work. It’s focus. It’s Dr. Patel saying, “Beautiful—again,” and Kelley’s countdowns that feel like rocket launches I can actually survive. It’s Lucas’s forehead pressed to mine between pushes, his hands bracing my shoulders when I want to curl away from my own power.
The storm rages louder; a gust rattles the window and the lights flutter, but the generator hum steadies and the room keepsholding. I can’t tell if minutes or centuries pass. I am a person and a volcano and a metronome; I am every woman who has ever done this and somehow still just me, here, with the man I didn’t think I’d need and the baby who is about to make every metaphor literal.
“Okay, Melanie,” Dr. Patel says, voice bright and calm. “One more like that. You are almost there.”
I want to believe her and I do, because the whole room leans toward me like a promise. I close my eyes and push like I’m swimming toward the surface and the light. The world narrows to a ring of fire and then—everything changes.
A cry, sharp and wild and the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Time stutters and then sprints. Hands move fast and sure. And then there, on my chest, warm and slippery and outraged at the weather, is our baby boy.
I didn’t know my heart could do this thing—this expanding, this cracking open, this rearranging of furniture. I laugh-cry, both at once, like maybe I’ve been practicing for exactly this sound. Lucas’s hand cups the baby’s back; his other covers my cheek. He presses his forehead to mine and then to the baby’s crown.
