Despite everything, he laughs. “Deal. That can be our secret.”
Another contraction hits as we reach the car. I brace myself against the door, panting and gripping his hand so hard I’m probably cutting off his circulation.
“You’re doing great,” he says, rubbing circles on my lower back. “Just breathe. You’re doing so well.”
When the contraction finally does pass, he helps me into the passenger seat and buckles me in. Then he’s in the driver’s seat, starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway.
He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding mine, gently stroking his thumb across my knuckles.
“How are you?” he asks, glancing over at me.
“Okay. I think. The contractions are closer together.”
“I know. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Just keep breathing.”
Another contraction builds, and I squeeze his hand, focusing on my breathing like we practiced in the birthing classes. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In and out. In and out.
“That’s it,” he says. “You’ve got this. You’re so strong, Heather. So fucking strong.”
The contraction peaks and then slowly fades. I slump back in the seat, already exhausted and knowing this is just the beginning.
Grant pulls up to the hospital entrance and parks right in front of the doors. He’s out of the car in seconds, coming around to help me out.
A nurse with a wheelchair appears just as I’m unbuckling my seat belt. “Looks like someone’s ready to have a baby,” she says with a warm smile.
“The contractions are about two or three minutes apart,” Grant says, all business now. “Her water broke maybe thirty minutes ago.”
“Well, then, let’s get you inside.” The nurse helps me into the wheelchair while Grant grabs the bag from the backseat.
Everything after that is a blur. The nurse wheels me through the automatic doors, down a hallway, and into a labor and delivery room. Grant stays right beside me the entire time, his hand never leaving mine.
More nurses come in to help me out of my clothes and into a hospital gown. They get me into the bed and hook me up to monitors that track the baby’s heartbeat and my contractions.
“You’re doing great, Heather,” one of the nurses says as she checks the monitor. “Your baby looks good, with a strong heartbeat.”
Another contraction hits, and I grip the bedrail. This one is rough, and I have to grit my teeth to get through it.
Grant is right there, leaning over me, one hand in mine and the other stroking my hair. “I’m here. I’m right here. You’re doing amazing.”
“It hurts,” I gasp when the contraction passes.
“I know, beautiful. I know.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “But you’re so strong. You can do this.”
The doctor comes in to check my progress, and her eyebrows raise in surprise. “Well, you weren’t kidding about those contractions. You’re already at seven centimeters. This baby is in a hurry.”
Seven centimeters. Thankfully, we live close to the hospital. Otherwise I’d be doing this on the side of the road somewhere.
The next hour passes in waves of pain and brief moments of relief. Grant never leaves my side. He holds my hand through every contraction, whispering encouragement and love and promises that I’m almost there.
When I beg for an epidural, he relays the message to the nurses. When I cry that I can’t do this, he tells me I can. When I squeeze his hand so hard I’m sure I’m breaking bones, he doesn’t even flinch.
Finally, the doctor checks me again and nods. “Okay, Heather. You’re at ten centimeters. It’s time to push.”
Time to push. Grant squeezes my hand and leans close.
“You can do this,” he says. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The next contraction builds, and the nurse tells me to push when I’m ready. I bear down, gripping Grant’s hand and the bedrail, and push with everything I have.
