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“Okay, babe. I’m hurrying. We’re only five more minutes away from the hospital, just hang in there.” I try to keep my voice as calm as possible as I slam the gas pedal to the floor and barrel through the light.
I cut those five minutes to three by disregarding all traffic rules, pulling the car into a parking space just shy of 4:30. I rush around the car to grab Jen’s bag and help her out of the car. Our pace drastically slows though, as she has to stop to breathe through each contraction, which by my mental count are only two minutes apart. It probably takes us more time to walk to the labor and delivery nurses’ station than it did for me to drive us here. I will not be mentioning that to Jen, though. I would like to have more children in the future and I’ve learned she’s keen on collecting the man parts of men who piss her off.
“Can I help you?” a plump, middle-aged woman behind the desk asks, obviously irritated she’s working the night shift. Pam, the desk worker, immediately rubs me the wrong way, and I begin to silently pray our interaction with this woman ends after we leave the check-in counter.
“My girlfriend is in labor. Her water broke about thirty minutes ago,” I tell her, doing my best to be polite as Jen concentrates on her current contraction.
“Are you sure your water broke?” she asks dismissively.
Jen looks up from the white tile floor which has become the all-important focal point and serves me the iciest of death glares. Instead of relaying the message that she is seconds away from being stabbed in the eye with her flower pen, I opt for, “We’re pretty sure.”
“Okay, well, have you filled out any of the pre-admission paperwork?”
“No, our appointment is next week.”
When she rolls her eyes and heads off to another room to retrieve the paperwork, all of my patience disintegrates. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I spit out in a hushed tone. Jen shushes me, but I ignore her. “What are they going to do, send us to the parking lot to deliver the baby in the car?”
Jen twirls around, pi
Stepping into the fray of growing tension, Pam returns with the necessary paperwork along with another nurse. “Here, you’re going to have to fill this out,” she says, shoving a clipboard at me.
“You can follow me to an observation room,” nurse number two says.
“Observation room? Do you think she’s not in labor?” I ask.
“Well, sir, we have to be sure before we send you to delivery,” Pam chimes in.
We’re taken to a room the size of my closet with a single bed and a monitor. Jen changes into a hospital gown and climbs into the bed so the nurse can attach the monitor. Instantly the baby’s heartbeat echoes through the room and the screen shows the peaks and valleys of Jen’s contractions.
“How are we coming with the paperwork?” Pam asks.
“I just got in the room, it’s not done yet.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes to get it from you,” she says before leaving the room. I give her a little salute to send her off.
I’m not sure what observation is taking place because as soon as the monitor is co
“You need to get someone; these are getting bad,” Jen breathes through a contraction. I jump into action, thankfully though, nurse number two walks through the door, so I don’t have to track anyone down.
“Let’s go ahead and see how things are progressing,” she says, taking the monitor strips in her hand to examine them. “Looks like you’ve been having good ones.”
I grind my teeth at the lack of care or concern anyone is showing us. I know this is no big deal to these two women who see deliveries all day every day, but this is scary and exciting for me and I have no idea what to expect.
“I have to push,” Jen shouts, gaining everyone’s attention. My freak-out mode is now soaring, but nurse number two still sees no reason for alarm; never mind we’re still in a damn observation room.
“Let’s check things out, hun, just keep breathing,” she says as she places gloves on and prepares for what has to be one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever seen. All I can think is, I wonder if this is how Five Finger Death Punch got its name.
The nurse’s eyes bug out and she jumps from the bed, shouting into the hall. “Call delivery, I need some help in here.”
“What’s going on, where are we going?” I ask, grabbing the bags as several nurses storm into the room and begin wheeling the bed into the hallway. There’s no time for IVs or an epidural. Jen’s going to be pissed she didn’t get to wear her designer hospital gown. She waited weeks for that thing to be delivered because she thinks hospital issued ones are ugly and no matter how hard you try, your ass always hangs out the back.
“Everything is okay, we need to get her to a delivery room, the baby is here,” a nurse reassures me. I’m following close behind the hoard of people until I see good old Pam waiting for me with her clipboard. “Sir, you missed a signature, can you please follow me to finish the paperwork?”
My. Head. Explodes. With Jen out of earshot, I feel it’s safe to unleash the verbal diarrhea I’ve wanted to spill onto this woman since I got off the elevator.
“With all due respect, you can shove that clipboard up your ass. I understand this paperwork is important, but making sure my girlfriend and baby are safe sits a little higher for me. Maybe if you had worried a little less about those forms and a little more about the patient, my baby would be born in a delivery room with an actual doctor instead of the fucking hallway for everyone to see.” I swipe the clipboard from her hand, sign the missing piece, and toss it back to her. “I don’t want to see your face again while we are here.”
I turn and race down the hall, following the sound of chaos to a room mid-way down the corridor. I quickly get to Jen’s side and wipe the sweat from her face. “He’s almost here,” I whisper in her ear.
The on-call doctor barely enters the room in time to catch the baby. There’s no delivering about it, she might as well have had a catcher’s mitt.
I cut the cord and when I hear him cry all of the drama and frustration to get to this moment fades away. Thankful, I’m just thankful. Looking down at Jen, worn out and shaking from the drop in adrenaline, I can’t hide my grin. “Good job, sparkplug,” I say, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “He’s perfect, you did so well. I love you, Jen. Thank you for giving me a family.”
“I love you too,” she smiles. “Go. Go check on Ryker,” she murmurs, barely able to keep her eyes open.
Excited but nervous, I tentatively approach the baby warmer where the nurses are taking care of Ryker. “Hi, little man,” I coo, allowing his tiny hand to grasp my index finger. “You were in a bit of a rush.”
“He’s fine, sir, but we’re going to need to take him to the nursery to suction him out better and give him a little oxygen,” a nurse interrupts.
Before I can question her or ask if I’m allowed to go with him, buzzers and alarms ring out around Jen’s bed. When I see she’s unconscious, I rush to her and grab her lifeless hand.
“Jen!” I shout, shaking her. “Sparkplug, wake up.” There’s no response. My frozen panic sets in as the pandemonium of the room swarms around me, pushing me away from Jen’s bedside.
“Start an IV!”
“Push the epinephrine!”
“She’s bleeding out, get the O.R. and anesthesiologist prepped!”
“Someone get her chart, now!”
“Sir...”
“Sir…”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, snapping out of my trapped state of anxiety.
“Sir, does she have any known allergies or any history of clotting disorders?” the nurse asks me.