By the time we get moved to a room, it’s five p.m. and my contractions are picking up—six minutes apart, more intense, harder to talk through, lasting longer than before. They feel like really bad period cramps, the kind that would’ve had me taking ibuprofen two hours ago.
Mason’s great, attentive. He’s right here with me, telling me how much he loves me, reminding me to breathe, asking what he can do to help. I can tell he’s uptight with not being able to help more, and also just not knowing what to do.
I had him put my hair up, just to make him feel like he was being helpful. He took it very seriously. I saw myself in the mirror, briefly, when I was walking around. I look like I went through a windstorm.
Hours pass, we’re nearing midnight now. Last they checked, I was six centimeters and the babies were still both head down. The contractions got way worse. Closer together. Stronger than I ever thought they could get. And, I have to say, I’m glad we’re having two. I don’t think I’d be signing up to do this again. So, this way, I labor once and get two babies out of it. It’s perfect.
“Okay,” I breathe after one contraction ends. I’m leaning over the bottom of the bed. Mason’s behind me, his hands pressed to my hips, applying steady counter-pressure, just like the nurse showed him earlier. “Next time they come in, I want the epidural. I can’t. I don’t want to do it like this anymore,” I tell him, catching my breath.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says. “If this was me, I’d have gotten it hours ago.” He laughs and kisses my cheek. “You’re doing so good.”
Within twenty minutes the anesthesiologist is wheeling her cart in. The nurse tells me how to sit on the edge of the bed, directs Mason on how to sit in front of me. His hands in mine for now, his blue eyes sleepy but here. Present.
The anesthesiologist starts with wiping my back with something wet and sterile-smelling. And then it hits, the thought of the needle. I feel lightheaded, queasy, but Mason snaps me out of it almost instantly.
“You’re gonna keep your eyes on me,” he says. “Do you understand?” He’s not mean, just firm. Trying not to act scared. And I get it, because the last thing we need is for me to pass out with a needle in my back.
I nod, swallowing hard, focusing on him, his blue eyes.
“Good,” Mason says quietly. “Don’t mind them, just look at me.”
I feel the cold again. Then pressure, not pain. Just a strange, quick-building pressure in my lower back.
“You’re doing great, Megan,” the anesthesiologist says. “Almost done. Stay very still.”
Mason’s thumbs brush across my knuckles. “Breathe, babe.”
I breathe. More pressure. Then a deep pinch that almost makes me jump.
I squeeze Mason’s hands tighter and lean my forehead against his.
“Eyes on me,” he reminds me, voice steady.
I lock eyes and don’t look away.
“All done,” the anesthesiologist announces. “You did perfect.”
I let out a breath and Mason smiles, proud of me. Together, he and the nurse help me lie back down, adjusting pillows, positioning monitors.
The nurse dims the lights on her way out, and Mason pulls the chair closer to the bed, settling in beside me.
Within minutes, the next contraction comes, and it’s…different. Duller. Manageable. I can feel the tightening, the pressure, but the sharp, breathtaking pain is gone.
I look at Mason, eyes wide. “Oh my gosh.”
He grins. “Better?”
“Somuch better.”
He laughs, leaning down to kiss my forehead. “Good.”
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too.”
My eyes drift closed, and for the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe.
Mason
