Mazin Alexander Kiewit Swepston, b. 8:38 pm Sept. 25

Swimming, wanting to bring it on. Enough of this heaviness, waiting, wanting, not walking, aching. Out of the pool, gravity stronger now, pulling the baby down, down. Pressure, pain, call to the doctor. “Normal,” all normal. Next day, pool again, wanting to bring it on. Evening contractions, thirty minutes apart. John keeping track on a yellow legal pad. Scribbling numbers, looking for a pattern. Bedtime, slowing down, but awake for each contraction. Little sleep. Morning, working from home. Want to keep busy. Sometimes fifteen minutes apart. Mild, like severe menstrual cramps. A number on the scale of pain? I don’t know, don’t know what is to come. Getting closer together, more painful. Now like a belt being tightened around my waist, wrapping around the back: this must be the real thing. Seven, eight minutes apart now. Getting ready to go to the hospital. Wait—just let me rest a bit first. Laying down, contractions subside. Another odd night of little sleep, awakened by contractions, far apart.

Morning brings Maitri appointment. Contractions in the car, in the lobby. They call my name, I’m in a contraction and can’t answer. Leaning against the wall in the waiting room. Exam: 3 centimeters dilated. Officially “early labor.” “I think we’ll see you in the hospital tonight,” says Amy. Lunch at Pho Dang: I break two red chiles in my pho, wanting the spice to carry me along. Then a walk with Susan, Lukas, and John, which is torture. I amble painfully, hanging on John for a couple of contractions. Walking slows them down. I am done walking. Back in the car to go home and wait it out. No idea when I will have to get back in the car again, but starting to dread the ride to the hospital. Contractions in the car are hell. Contractions intensify at home, seem headed for the 5-minute milestone. Call Shana to help in the car on the way back north. She arrives at 6pm and they slow down again. Laboring in the living room with Shana and John beside me. Music on the stereo to help me focus. On the mat, on the couch, standing, kneeling, have to change positions every time. Once they come on, I am pinned down by the pain. Can’t move. Must not get stuck on my back, as that is most painful of all. Afraid of the pain. Go up to the bedroom, different positions in bed. Pain is too much, I have to try the big tub. John scrubbing it spotless, the hot water is such a relief. I don’t care if the contractions slow down… but they don’t. The bath seems to intensify, while at the same time making them bearable. I love the bath, I love the water. I don’t want to get out. But now the contractions are about five minutes apart. They won’t tell me, but I can tell. It’s one o’clock in the morning. It’s time to get in the car. I don’t want to. Getting ready, gathering bags. Cell phone in the bath—oops! A little comic twist. Car ride from hell. Stopping three times to squat and pee. If I don’t pee it is so much more painful. I’ve been eating and drinking religiously, anticipating a long labor. Have to keep my body fueled. The drive doesn’t feel so long.

We are there. Screaming and moaning a contraction in the parking garage: spooky echo, frightens me. I hear myself. Empty lobby, wheel chair, security guard leading the way through the maze. Contraction just outside the elevator. Quick, out of the chair, don’t want to be sitting through this one. Yelling and moaning, announcing my arrival. Checking in, signing forms. (How can they ask me to sign a form right now?) Scribble my name extra sloppy. Room 4 occupied. Heart sinks. How will I make it through without that giant tub? Trying to be positive. Room 8 is small and stark. Doesn’t feel right. Bathroom smells like urine. I don’t want to wear that hospital gown. Nurse seems standoffish. My contractions ease, though. I feel calm here. Under control. Safe. On the bed, listen to his heart: strong. Resident enters, wants to examine me. I tell her no, only my doctor. She leaves. Meghan the nurse runs the tub for me. Joins Shana by my side in the bathroom. John napping on the hospital bed. I love this nurse—she had her children naturally. She talks to us about birth, between my contractions. It is still and quiet in the tub. I feel good. I joke and talk in between. I am myself in between. I relax, let go… and I am rewarded. Meghan beams as she tells me room 4 is now open. Susan’s room; my room. We enter grinning, like this is our five-star vacation suite. I see that big tub, my salvation. I want to save it for later, though—for when I need a break from the pain. It is still dark outside, the early hours of the morning. John walks the ward with me. We do laps, loping circles. Stopping for contractions. There are no other sounds but mine. Where are the other women? “They’ve all had their epidurals,” Meghan says. I’ve seen the sinister form of the anesthesiologist slipping in and out of rooms. He looks shifty, a comic figure. I see him as a drug pusher. I don’t want him near me. I don’t even want to see him. He is a shadow. Miracle: Susan appears. She has slipped past the guard! Crisis: Meghan’s shift is over. I want her to stay. I consider begging her, but realize this is unfair. New nurse Kimball comes on—I’m not so sure about her. Older, matter-of-fact, plain face. Not sure how much compassion she has for me. (By the end of the morning, I am screaming for her to come back whenever she leaves the room. I trust her. I want her by my side.) Someone has a Coke. Suddenly I have to have one. Kimball says some people swear by it. Find out only Pepsi is available. Figure it’s close enough. Drink half the can, give the rest to John. I feel energized, return to the room. In and out of the tub, Shana, Susan, and John taking turns napping, eating, and staying by my side. Trying lots of positions in and out of the tub. I don’t want to stay in too long, but when I get out it’s hell. Kimball sends me to the toilet. Must be transition: I am sobbing and saying I can’t do it. I’m asking her what will happen to me. Asking how much worse it will get. The bathroom is the last time I really open my eyes. I go inside now. Ask for the shades to be drawn. Closing out that beautiful day, beautiful view. I don’t want to see sunshine. I am not sunshine inside. I am suffering. No more normal Jenn; no more jokes. This is serious now. I can’t believe the pain. Time for Julie to examine me. Only 6 centimeters! So many hours and not fully dilated. Discouraged. More pain in the tub. Feel the urge to push a couple of times. A strange sensation. Pray I’m fully dilated. My knees are killing me. I am running out of steam. Another exam: almost there, but a piece of cervix remains. Julie holds it aside while I push, on my back in bed. I don’t want her up there, but I want this baby out. Finally the cervix is out of the way: time to push in earnest. I try to do it the way the video said: slow, gentle, no strain. An hour passes, Julie drops the bomb. The C-word. It’s possible his head won’t fit through my pelvis. What? Disbelief. I thought we were in the clear; I never considered surgery. Why had I done all this work? Was it all for nothing? “I’ll give you another hour and then we’ll assess,” she says. She leaves to deliver a baby across the hall. Leaves us with the aftershocks.

I am despairing. I feel hopeless, helpless. Contractions stall. Why bother? I’m dying here, for nothing. Just to end up under the knife. French-Canadian Julie, the resident, rallies us. She tells me I can do it. My support team agrees. Doctor Julie is full of shit. Maybe she’s trying to motivate me, I think. Sliver of hope. I won’t give up, not now. Pushing goes on, endless. I get up to squat and push. Maybe it’s this different position that brings him down. “I was wrong,” says Julie when she returns. Now it’s time to get this baby out. Pushing, pushing, each contraction draining me further. Desperately sipping grape juice in between. I hate it but I can almost feel the calories becoming energy. Running on fumes, no way to replenish now. The hours of no sleep and pain catching up to me. I am stuck on my back—no energy to change positions. I must rest in between, with people holding my legs up to keep them from cramping. I don’t even know who is whom. I haven’t opened my eyes in hours. I have to focus. They are voices. Without their voices, this would not be possible. It would be so easy to give up. Will I die here? Will I split in two? My back is killing me, I say. Someone help me, I say. This isn’t possible. How many more pushes? How much more time? They just keep lying to me. They have to lie; I have to believe them. One at a time. Grape juice and a contraction. Deep breath four times per contraction, breathing in and using the breath to push each time. They tell me he’s coming down. I can feel his head, but there is still so far to go. They tell me to push harder—I do. I don’t know how, but I do. I have to. There is no going back now. I have to get him out, or I will die. That’s what I think. Suddenly there is movement, stirring, the sound of equipment and bodies shifting. I open my eyes and see the doctors and nurses getting suited up, wheeling over the spotlight. It’s going to happen, then! It’s really going to happen. But not soon enough… first the ring of fire, so much worse than I ever imagined. Burning, stretching flesh. Must be tearing now. The head doesn’t retract. He must be peaking out from between my legs! I’m screaming, scraping my own throat raw. It’s the only way to deal with the pain. “Listen to me,” commands Julie. “You have to listen to me now. Push when I tell you.” I listen; I push. Harder than ever. So hard I explode. I am nothing but yellow, orange light. I do not exist anymore, not as myself. Maybe this is the moment I become a mother. My old self dies; a new self is born. They put him on my chest and I startle. They tell me I cry out in surprise. In my death, I’ve forgotten why I’m here, why this yellow and orange light, why this explosion. But he cries and I am back in my body, saying, “It’s OK, sweetie,” comforting him. He is beautiful, perfect. They hold up his testicles, saying, “Look what you have!” John is crying, and then he is cutting the cord up on my chest, so I can see it. I can’t feel them sever this last tie to my body. How strange that seems. We are no longer one. I am no longer me. We are something new. It is the beginning…