The Subjective Miracle

     I awaken when the bed shifts slightly as Elise and all of her weight abruptly depart from the springs. She is walking into our bathroom. Though larger than it was ten months prior, her butt still looks really cute in this moment, so I smile. I remind myself that cute butt got us into all this, and continue to grin through the exhaustion and haze.

      Through the skylight above, I see it’s still dark out, so I assume there’s still time for sleep before the alarm is going to tell me to get to work, so I close my eyes. I try to slip back into unconsciousness but I hear her defecating through the bathroom door. This strikes me as odd because she’s usually constipated.

      This is life. Adulthood. A hormone-loaded teenage male never includes flatulence and bodily functions in the fantasies about that hot girl he longs to be with forever. That was half my life ago. This is real now.

     I hear the toilet flush and the door creak. “Hey,” she whispers, “you awake?”

     “Yeah.”

      “Don’t freak out,” she says anxiously, “but I’m pretty sure I just went into labor.”

      “Oh. Oh shit!” I sit up. “Water broke? What’s going on?”

     She hasn’t turned on any lights, so I can only make out her basic shape. She’s standing inside the doorway, pajama bottoms around her knees, a clump of balled up toilet paper in her hand. “No, my water didn’t break, but I think the ‘bloody show’ just happened.”

     She recedes back into the darkness. I hear the clink sound made by her weight’s return to the toilet seat, and I’m wondering if that’s a bad thing. You’re not supposed to go the bathroom if you’re having a baby, right? No, that doesn’t sound right. Not yet, anyway. A heavy surge of adrenaline overpowers the drowsiness. I start mumbling before there are any real words. “Uhhhh—are you having contractions—in pain?”

     “No,” she says.

     I get a hold of myself. I remember the classes we took at the hospital a month ago. Contractions are spaced out…for one minute every five minutes…or something. “What should we do?” I blurt stupidly.

     “Nothing, babe,” she says, now sounding calm. I hear rustling of the thin paper followed by the flush of the toilet again. “I’m coming back to bed. Let’s just relax. This might not be it.”

     “Right,” I say.

      “It’s five in the morning,” she says. “In three hours, we have an appointment with Doctor Jenson anyway.”

     She’s right. The timing is perfect. And she’s not in pain, so some of the tension in the room flees. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe we’re just being overeager. She slowly works her way back to the bed with confidence, and I let myself ease down onto my back as she crawls under the covers beside me. I let out a long exhale. “Relax,” she reminds me. “Go back to sleep.”

     “I’m cool,” I lie. “Just…just exciting.”

     “It is,” she agrees, then adds, “exciting.”

     “Two weeks early,” I say.

     “You know I’m good and ready,” she states quickly. Her body has been a temple of discomfort—back and hips mostly—from the moment she showed me the stripes on the pee stick. “I can’t wait to finally meet our son,” she continues, “and not be a gigantic, bloated whale anymore.”

     I smile briefly.

     I think about all the work I’ve left unfinished at the office. It’s the early hours of a Friday now, and I was supposed to be heading to the office immediately after the Doc Jenson appointment. I doubt that’s the case anymore. Now my computer is going to be running all weekend. Why am I thinking about that and worrying about such nonsense?

     “No pains?” I ask again.

     “Nothing more than usual,” she says. “Feels different—gas—but I still don’t think it’s contractions.”

     “Cool,” I whisper.

     Awake. C’mon. Close eyes. Sleep for another few hours. Get up, call office, tell them it’s baby time. Help her get to car, go to Doctor’s, and see if he agrees it’s baby time. I keep opening and closing my eyes.

    She begins snoring. Good.

     The vivid memory of the words, “You wanna see something crazy,” still rings in my ears.

     Adrenaline continues at a steady flow as I watch the color of the sky turn from that deep shade of navy blue to what almost looks like teal. It’s going to be a clear day. The clock taunts 7:15. “Wake up, babe,” I say.

    She grunts.

     “Wake up,” I repeat, trying my best to sound chipper. My eyes feel dry and burnt, like I’d been trying to understand the inner workings of a hair dryer by staring directly into it while it was running at its highest setting. “Time to move. Do you want a shower?”

     She grunts again, then says, “Someone’s about to get up close and personal with my crotch—probably the case all day. What do you think?”

    Point taken.

    She gets up and slumps her way into the shower.

     I find jeans and a long sleeve New York Rangers shirt. Am I supposed to dress a certain way for this? I start collecting our overnight bags. Clock’s ticking.

     It’s 8:15.

     While waiting in the tiny white exam room, she is laying on her back looking at her phone, so I snap a photo of her with her big pregnant belly pointing up at the drop ceiling.

     I slide my phone back into my pocket and ask what she’s looking at.

     “Writing work an e-mail,” she says. “I was supposed to have a meeting around lunch time to further discuss my time off.”

     I thought that had all been taken care of. One way or another, they’re screwing her over. With politicos spouting their lines about the importance of families, we Americans really get the shaft when it comes to maternity leave. I hate to admit I never gave it a thought until she got pregnant.

    Before making a snide remark about politics, my attention is drawn to the door creaking open behind me. I expect to see Doctor Jenson’s smiling face, but it’s a slender young woman. “Hi guys,” she says with kindness, “how we doing?”

    “Good,” we say.

     “I’m Doctor Trombley, a resident under Doctor Jenson. Mind if I take a look at you?”

     I almost answer, but logic clicks. Elise says, “Sure,” without apprehension.

     I smile and nod. I make eye contact with her and something is off. Flesh eating bacteria? It’s like she’s missing her bottom right eyelid. Where the lid should be is just a frayed reddish edge, and the lower portion of her eyeball is right there for the world to see—not protruding, but it’s like gravity is going to kick in and it’s going to roll out at any moment. I strive to be a kind, empathetic being, so I don’t gawk or recoil. My hand jets forward and connects with hers, and I grip with unnecessary firmness as if I’m intending to keep her from falling off a cliff. I feel foolish and let go, but conclude with another smile and nod before looking away.

     She walks past me and shakes Elise’s hand, then politely asks her to remove her pants and part her legs. Even with that belly, she performs the tasks with swiftness. I stand off to the left as Trombley slathers lubricant all over a gloved hand, squats down, and tells Elise, “Sorry, but I’ll make it as quick and easy as I can.”

     Elise groans, and I see her body tense up so I reach over and put my hand on her shoulder—as if that’s gonna help.

     Trombley looks up, asymmetrical eyes wide, and says, “You’re eight centimeters dilated, my friend. Wow.”

     We don’t understand the significance.

     “You really haven’t felt contractions? Nothing?”

     “No.”

     “Amazing. Well, I’m going to go track down Doctor Jenson and have him take a look. You’re close.” She snaps off the glistening glove and discards it as she quickly exits.

     I can’t speak, but give my grip on Elise’s shoulder a little boost in pressure. It’s been quite a journey.

     It’s almost 1 p.m. and we’re in our Hyundai Accent on the way to the hospital.

      “I’ll be damned,” Jenson had said after placing his hand inside Elise. “You really are almost at eight. Shit.”

     He tried to break her water with his fingernail, but couldn’t. Looking a little bewildered, he cautiously went on to say we could go home and relax, the caveat being to stay close and plan on coming back around 2 p.m. so that he could review the progress. And he admonished the idea of Elise attending her meeting. She heeded the advice.

     “Do you think that’s painful?” I say as I push the pedal. I feel a look, so I quickly follow with, “Doctor Trombley’s eye.”

     “Must be somewhat painful. She can’t blink, right? She must need artificial tears constantly.”

     I ponder. “Good for her.”

     “Huh?”

     I assume that when someone must overcome hurdles not shared by others on the track, the satisfaction is more significant when crossing the finish line. I say, “Just nice to see someone not let…ahhh…an ailment hold them back.”

     Elise doesn’t answer. She moans, takes out her smart phone, and clicks the start button on the contractions app she downloaded when we got to the lobby of Jenson’s office; yes, contractions started the moment we’d left. In my peripheral, I can see her wincing; the plight of Doctor Trombley means nothing to her in this moment.

     I don’t know what to do. When I see her click the button indicating the contraction’s over, I ask, “How bad?”

     “Average,” she says, “like the others.”

     We are both amazed that, up to this point, none of her contractions have been agonizing. The only reason I insisted we head to the hospital is that these minor contractions began occurring in pretty rapid succession.

     I see the hospital entrance ahead—we thankfully live just blocks away—and I follow the red arrow below the words Valet Parking scrawled across the large sandwich board on the sidewalk. There is a short line of cars in front of us, but long enough that I feel adrenaline burning again. I see Elise push the button again. I slap a beat on the steering wheel. I pump my foot on the brake and make the car bounce a little. “Stop that,” she insists.

     After a few seconds of eternity, cars move up. I step out and am approached by an attendant wearing a nice jacket. “Parking?” he asks.

     “Yes,” I say quickly and hand over my key, but also want to say something profound to illustrate the magnitude of the feel a look, so I quickly follow with, “Doctor Trombley’s eye.”

     “Must be somewhat painful. She can’t blink, right? She must need artificial tears constantly.”

     I ponder. “Good for her.”

     “Huh?”

     I assume that when someone must overcome hurdles not shared by others on the track, the satisfaction is more significant when crossing the finish line. I say, “Just nice to see someone not let…ahhh…an ailment hold them back.”

      Elise doesn’t answer. She moans, takes out her smart phone, and clicks the start button on the contractions app she downloaded when we got to the lobby of Jenson’s office; yes, contractions started the moment we’d left. In my peripheral, I can see her wincing; the plight of Doctor Trombley means nothing to her in this moment.

     I don’t know what to do. When I see her click the button indicating the contraction’s over, I ask, “How bad?”

     “Average,” she says, “like the others.”

     We are both amazed that, up to this point, none of her contractions have been agonizing. The only reason I insisted we head to the hospital is that these minor contractions began occurring in pretty rapid succession.

     I see the hospital entrance ahead—we thankfully live just blocks away—and I follow the red arrow below the words Valet Parking scrawled across the large sandwich board on the sidewalk. There is a short line of cars in front of us, but long enough that I feel adrenaline burning again. I see Elise push the button again. I slap a beat on the steering wheel. I pump my foot on the brake and make the car bounce a little. “Stop that,” she insists.

     After a few seconds of eternity, cars move up. I step out and am approached by an attendant wearing a nice jacket. “Parking?” he asks.

     “Yes,” I say quickly and hand over my key, but also want to say something profound to illustrate the magnitude of the situation. “My wife is actually in labor right now. So…”

     “Oh,” he says, barely looking up. “Need a wheelchair?”

     “Please.”

     He casually pushes a wheelchair over to me, which I bring to the passenger side door of the Hyundai. Elise takes her seat as I grab the overnight bags from the trunk, then fumble around trying to sling them over my shoulders. The attendant wishes us well as he drives off towards the parking garage. With gym bags swinging about and throwing my balance mildly askew, I push Elise through the sliding glass doors and into the long white hallway. She’s not having a contraction at the moment, so we laugh and make jokes. “Weeeeeeee,” I say, giving the chair a burst of speed.

     Things are happening fast.

     We pass countless faces in the hall, most looking sick and sad. It’s understandable. It’s strange being in a hospital for a joyful reason.

     We’re heading towards the Building J elevators, which seem miles away. The birthing center is on the sixth floor, which feels like a strangely distant location for a scenario that I assume is often urgent.

     We board the elevator, and she clicks the button on her phone again as I click the 6. I put my hand on her shoulder during the ascent. The door opens on the sixth and the contraction is over.

     “Bad?”

     “Not really.”

     The sign for the birthing center is visible immediately. Following the arrow, we’re moving down another long cavernous hall, and I can see the reception desk in the distance. We push ahead.

     “How are we?” asks the young girl at the desk as we approach.

     “In labor.”

     Seeing a calm Elise tapping buttons on her phone, the girl skeptically says, “Okay, how do you know you’re in labor? Water broke?”

     “At our doctor’s this morning—Jenson, we called him before we headed over so he should be here by now actually—he said I was eight centimeters dilated.”

     All the muscles in the receptionist’s face give out. Wide eyed, jaw hanging, she looks at us. “Eight?”

     “Yes.”

     She frantically starts reaching for papers as Elise clicks the button for another contraction. As she bears down, I provide the information. The contraction ends.

     “Bad?”

     “Not really.”

     The astonished receptionist says, “At eight centimeters, women are usually screaming mindlessly and tearing pillows apart.”

     “Oh.”

     “Please go through those doors,” she says.

      As the doors swing open, we see Doctor Jenson and Trombley in the hallway, now wearing the blue scrubs. They greet us with big smiles. “We ready to have a baby?”

     “God yes,” says Elise.

     “Awesome,” says Doctor Trombley. “They’re just getting this room fixed up.” She then calls into the room and asks a blonde haired nurse, “Want to do another?”

     “Will be my third today,” she says as she and another nurse rapidly strip the bed.

      “This will be a quickie,” says Doctor Jenson.

      “Send her in,” says the blonde nurse. Handing Elise a gown, she politely points to the bathroom and says, “You can get naked and put that on.”

      As Elise goes to change, the nurse stands at a computer typing, and I stand by the side of the bed like a fool. My body is tingling. “How long have you been a nurse?” I ask brainlessly.

     “Twelve years,” she says and continues typing.

     Elise comes out and takes her place on the bed as

     Doctor Jenson enters. Her big belly gets strapped with a monitor. He has her part at the legs, then uses some sort of long plastic device to break her water. He and the nurse look at the fluid on the white towel, and argue as to whether or not a spot is mucus or meconium. Jenson is confident it’s mucus. He says the water breakage will get things going, and that he’ll be back shortly.

     He’s right: things are going. Her pain rolls in, no longer mild.

      Elise lets out a cry and my fear rises with the tone, but the nurse doesn’t flinch and continues to punch the keyboard. I acknowledge that the strident wails of birthing mothers are probably as routine for her ears as the sounds of a photocopier are to mine, so I ignore her seemingly unconcerned demeanor.

     Jenson, Trombley, and others enter.

      She’s screaming mindlessly. The words, “It hurts so bad,” push through her lips.

      I whisper how proud I am of her, how much I love her, and she says, “I love you, but shut up.”

     While putting on a mask and eye shield, from the foot of the bed, Doctor Jenson softly says, “I know it hurts now, but you’re about to meet your son.”

      Though his words came from a place of the purest benevolence, I can hear Elise’s thoughts snarling something to the effect of: “I’m going set you aflame, and while you writhe as flesh melts, I’ll whisper, ‘I know it hurts, but you’re about to meet God.’”

     “What’s his name?” he asks.

     “Peter,” we say.

     It’s already time to push—at the finish—and on the third, he shoots out. There was no “Here comes the head,” moment. In a sea of fluids rides his entire form; caught by Jenson’s hands is our perfect baby boy. I’m tingling. Shaking. I reach over and touch the warm, wet skin of this tiny person who is now on Elise’s chest, then turn my head down and to the right so I can wipe the tears away on my shoulder.

     Without giving herself the chance to catch her breath, Elise demandingly asks, “Is he OK?” which impresses me.

     Before we panic, Peter starts to cry.

     “Congratulations,” says Doctor Jenson. “And you have bragging rights! Not many births go this way—so incredibly quick and easy!”

     I think about her screaming mindlessly. Even if brief, I’m grateful her pain is a memory.

      “You wanna see something crazy,” still rings in my ears. She had jumped onto the bed that morning to show me the two pink lines on the test.

      Now, in our room in postpartum, I brush his thin, wispy hair with my fingertips as he sleeps soundly on her chest. She’s exhausted, but good. She’s smiling. I feel like I’m immersed in light, a euphoria for which there are no words.

     “Want me to get coffee and sandwiches?” I ask.

     “Yes.”

     I don’t want to leave them, but hunger afflicts us.

     I kiss them both, then float down the hallway back to the J elevators where a young employee in scrubs is waiting with an empty wheelchair. He pushes the already-lit down button, turns to me, nods, and asks, “How you doin’ man?”

     “Great,” I say, wanting to conceal the excitement. I can’t. “I’m a father!”

     I expect a smile, minimum. Instead, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes slightly. “Good luck to you, man. I got two, and you never get used to that cryin’. It’s like a buzzsaw in your brains.”

     The doors slide open and he enters. Turning, he stares at me and I realize I’m not moving. He raises his eyebrows and asks, “You coming?”