Zahra and Saint had planned a home birth, so Reek took me to their home.
The second I got inside and heard the sounds coming from upstairs, I kicked my shoes off in the foyer and hurried up the stairs. Inside their bedroom, the lights were low. The smell of lavender was in the air. Towels were stacked everywhere. Somebody had laid out waterproof pads and blankets on the bed. The bathroom door was open, and the sound of running water mixed with Zahra’s agony came from inside.
When I stepped into the master bathroom, I saw Zahra in the huge soaking tub, naked and sweating, with her hair pulled up off her face and her whole body tense from the contraction rolling through her. Saint was in the tub behind her in black basketball shorts, one arm wrapped across her chest and the other hand pressed low over her belly like he could hold her through the pain if he just loved her hard enough. The doula stood beside the tub with a washcloth, coaching Zahra soothingly, and the midwife was down near the edge of the water, watching everything.
I climbed up on the wide counter by the sink because I wanted to be out the way but close enough to see. Zahra cried out through another contraction, gripping Saint’s forearm so hard I knew she had to be hurting him.
“I know, mama,” Saint said right into her ear. His voice was so loving, calm, and full of so much love it made my eyes sting instantly. “I know. Breathe with me.”
The doula nodded. “That’s right, Zahra. Long breaths. Give the pain somewhere to go.”
Zahra’s face scowled. “I’m trying to fucking breathe!”
“I know you are,” Saint told her, kissing the side of her head. “You’re doing perfect. You hear me?Perfect.”
The midwife checked her carefully, then looked up and said, “A few more like that, and we’re there.”
Saint looked down at Zahra like she was the bravest person he had ever seen. “You hear that? Our boy almost here.”
That made me break a little inside.Thiswas how having a child was supposed to look.Thiswas how your child’s father was supposed to love you; with his hands protecting you, with words that held you together when your body was coming apart to bring life into the world.
Zahra started crying. She sounded exhausted, stretched thin, and right at the edge of giving up. “I can’t do this,” she sobbed.
Saint tightened his hold on her immediately. “Yes, you can.”
“I’m tired, Saint.”
“I know, baby. I know.” He kissed her temple, then her cheek, then pressed his forehead against the side of her face. “But you can do this. You’re already doing it. You’re carrying our son into this world right now, and I’ve never been more proud of you.”
Tears rolled down my face as the doula handed Saint a cold rag. He wiped Zahra’s face so gently it made my throat burn.
“Look at me,” he told her.
Zahra turned her face just enough to look at him.
“This pain ain’t bigger than you,” he told her. “You’re bigger than all of this. You hear me? You’re strong as hell. You’re my wife. You’re the mother of my son. You were made for this.”
Zahra cried harder, and so did I.
When the next contraction hit, the doula started counting breaths. The midwife moved closer. Saint braced his feet in the tub and held Zahra tighter while she bore down.
“That’s it,” the midwife coached her. “Push into it…Good...Again.”
Zahra screamed this time so loud that it made me flinch. But Saint continued speaking into her ear like his words could carry her body through it. “Come on, Mama. Give him to me. Give me my son. You got this. One more. Push for me. Push for him.”
The midwife looked up, smiling now. “He’s right there. I see his head.”
Saint let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh and a cry mixed together. “You hear that, baby? Our son right there. Come on. One more. Let’s meet him.”
Zahra gritted her teeth and pushed again with everything she had as she let out a determined roar as Saint held her.
Zahra’s body bowed forward in the water. She cried out and grabbed Saint’s arm with both hands, and he shifted behind her to hold her up better while the doula moved closer between her knees. The midwife crouched beside the tub, watching everything carefully while the doula coached Zahra through each push.
Zahra screamed and bore down, face twisted, body shaking with all the effort she was using. The water around her moved with her, splashing against the sides of the tub. Saint kept one arm locked around her while his other hand slid over her wet stomach and down to her thigh, grounding her the whole time.
“I know, baby,” he kept saying into her ear. “I know it hurts. Come on. Push for me.”
Zahra let out this broken, tired cry that made my own eyes fill all over again. She looked like she had nothing left, but when the next contraction came, she dug down somewhere deeper and pushed again. I could see the top of the baby’s head then. It was slick and dark under the water.
