“Oh my God! It’s time!” Clara says, thrilled, when she realizes I’ve fallen behind and looks back at me over her shoulder. She retraces her steps and looks toward the end of the corridor. “Woman in labor!” she shouts to someone I can’t see but assume is one of our colleagues.
I pull my phone from my pocket and place the call, controlling my breathing as help arrives. I sit in the wheelchair they bring while I wait for my mother to answer.
“Nina?”
“My water broke. He’s coming.”
“He’s coming?” Her question is an excited shout that makes me laugh. “I’m on my way! I’m on my way!”
“Don’t take too long. This little guy seems to be in a hurry.”
***
The contractions are frequent and intense. I try to breathe deeply and focus on my breathing, but it’s hard. My colleagues are monitoring me closely and reassuring me, but I know something is wrong.
After nearly eighteen hours of labor, I still haven’t dilated enough. Even if I hadn’t noticed the heart monitors running much higher than they should, or my blood pressure through the roof, the splitting headache and relentless nausea would be symptoms enough. My mother squeezes my hand, watching me with worry.
“Hi, Nina,” Dr. Elena says as she enters my room with a smile that doesn’t quite convince. “Your test results are back. Your preeclampsia has progressed to eclampsia. We’re going to need to do a C-section.”
“But he’s okay? Kael is okay?”
“He is. We’ve been monitoring you since the contractions began. The surgery is a safety measure—just to make sure we control the entire birth environment, all right?”
“All I want is for my baby to be born healthy and safe, Dr. Elena. If you can give me that, I don’t need anything else.”
“We’ll do our very best—and this big boy will arrive screaming, Nina. Shall we get you prepped for surgery?”
“Let’s do it.” I agree and look at my mother. Her eyes are wet, and I give her a reassuring smile.
We knew a C-section was a possibility. The events early in my pregnancy took their toll—preeclampsia—and since I started prenatal care here, Dr. Elena warned me it could progress and explained what we’d do if it did.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell my mother. “Our boy is coming.” Her clearly nervous nod and a kiss to the back of my hand are all the answer I get.
Anxiety races through my veins alongside the excitement of finally meeting my child. My stubborn mind drifts to the image of his father; the anguish that always accompanies thoughts of Nero arrives swift and quiet. I close my eyes, telling myself this isthe worst possible moment for that, and hiding from myself how much I wish he were here.
I know this situation is out of my control, but I steady my breathing, forcing myself to stay calm. I receive medication to control my blood pressure and prevent seizures.
Time crawls until the moment of the C-section finally arrives. The nurses prep me for surgery, placing a cap on my head and an oxygen mask over my face.
The operating room is cold and quiet, except for the sounds of medical equipment and the voices of the staff at work. The anesthesia begins to take effect, and a wave of drowsiness and dizziness washes over me.
My mother tells me to focus on my breathing—and on my baby, who’s about to be born. The doctors’ and nurses’ voices grow muffled and distant, my awareness slipping away second by second, until emptiness embraces me.
***
“Careful, my daughter,” my mother warns as she opens the door for me. I hear her, but I can’t give her much attention—too focused on the little bundle in my arms to manage anything else.
I lower my face to Kael’s, brushing our noses together. His is so tiny it makes me want to nibble it as I babble nonsense in a voice I’ve apparently discovered exists only for him.
My baby sleeps in my arms, and I breathe out in relief as I step into our home for the first time in a week. My postpartumperiod wasn’t easy. The complications from eclampsia lingered, keeping me from coming home sooner—but now we’re okay.
Kael was born fifty-five centimeters long, weighing three kilos, six hundred and fifty-two grams. A big, incredibly healthy baby. That’s all that matters to me. His hair is thick and light, almost blond; his skin is very fair; and his eyes are blue—not like mine, but exactly like his father’s.
“We’re home, love,” I tell him. “Welcome to your home.”
My mother helps me sit in the nursing chair we placed in the living room, and I settle in. She sits on the armrest after fitting the nursing pillow around my torso, helping support Kael, and the two of us dote on him for what feels like hours.
“He’s perfect,” my mother says.
