"The doctor is on her way," Sarah says, helping Jamie onto the bed. "She'll be here in about ten minutes. In the meantime, let's see where we are."
What follows is a blur of medical checks and quiet questions. Jamie's blood pressure, his temperature, the baby's heart rate—all stable, all normal. He's dilated to five centimeters, which Sarah says is good progress for early labor.
"Could be a few hours still," she tells us. "First babies like to take their time. Try to rest between contractions if you can."
She leaves us alone. The room is quiet except for the soft beep of the fetal monitor, tracking our daughter's heartbeat.
Jamie lies back against the pillows, exhausted already. I watch him breathe through another contraction, his grip on my hand tightening until I can feel the bones shift. It lasts longer than the others—a full minute, maybe more—and when it finally releases, he's shaking.
"They're getting worse," he says.
"That means it's progressing. That's good."
"Easy for you to say."
The doctor arrives a few minutes later, calm and competent. She examines Jamie, confirms what Sarah told us. We settles in to wait. The room takes on a strange timeless quality—contractions coming and going, Jamie dozing between them, the sky outside the window slowly lightening from black to grey to pale pink.
By seven in the morning, Jamie is at six centimeters. By nine, he's at eight. The contractions are almost constant now, waves of pain crashing over him with barely any break between. He's stopped talking, stopped doing anything but breathing and gripping my hand and occasionally swearing with impressive creativity.
"You're doing amazing," I tell him, for the hundredth time.
"I think this is where I’m supposed to say I'm going to kill you," he replies. "And complain that is your fault."
"Technically, it's both our faults."
"Shut up." Another contraction hits, and his whole body tenses. "Oh god. Oh god, that's—"
"Breathe. Just breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm breathing and it still fucking hurts."
The doctor checks him again. "Nine centimeters. Almost there, Jamie. You're doing beautifully."
"I don't feel beautiful. I feel like I'm being torn apart."
"That's normal." Her voice is soothing, unflappable. "Your body knows what to do. Trust it."
The next hour is the longest of my life.
I've never felt so useless. There's nothing I can do—nothing anyone can do—except wait while Jamie's body does the work it was designed for. I hold his hand. I wipe the sweat from his forehead. I tell him I love him, over and over, until the words lose all meaning and become just sound, just rhythm, something to hold onto in the chaos.
And then, suddenly, everything changes.
"I need to push," Jamie gasps. "I need—"
"Okay." The doctor is there instantly, calm and ready. "Okay, Jamie. On the next contraction, I want you to bear down. Carter, support his shoulders."
I move behind him, letting him lean back against my chest. His whole body is trembling, soaked with sweat, and I can feel his heart racing against my arms.
"You can do this," I murmur against his ear. "You're the strongest person I know."
"I can't—"
"You can. You are. Just a little longer."
The contraction builds. Jamie bears down, his scream muffled against his own arm, and I hold him through it, feeling every ounce of his effort, his pain, his determination.
"Good," the doctor says. "Again. Push."
