An Exercise of the Imagination
Imagine with me that your wife is about to give birth. You fight the urge to speed your way to the hospital, barely managing to obey the speed limit signs. This moment feels surreal. For the last 8 months she has steadily progressed through the trimesters. At ten weeks, she was talking about baby names over lunch. The list isn’t quite as long after removing the names of coworkers, classmates, and a few that jokingly made it this far, but neither of you could settle on just one. “When we get to meet her” she decided, and you loved that answer.
Her belly started to show around 5 months, later than most expected, but the doctors told you this wasn’t a problem. “It’s normal for new parents to be nervous, but this is a very low risk pregnancy.” Praise God, this pregnancy is low risk, you thought. Thankfully, you are both healthy. Your family doesn’t have any history of health problems, and she walks frequently from your apartment to the corner stores. Your diets had changed for the better too. Hers, because she wanted the best for this baby; yours, because you couldn’t take that pouty face she made when the waitstaff brought out your fries and Coke — her now forbidden fruit.
You still felt a little anxious, but everyone at work said that was normal. Finances, your wife and child’s health, changing life circumstances, were all weighing on the back of your mind. Would the recent promotion be enough to provide for a baby? What if there were complications? What would your relationship look like now? Were you even ready to be parents?
But it was okay, because in the sixth month she shook you awake, “Quick the baby is kicking!” She laid your hand on her stomach and in your groggy stupor you felt the baby moving. You laid next to your wife in bed, amazed and surprised at how strong those little kicks and bumps were. Her eyes sparkled and you finally understood what that cliched, “she looks like she’s glowing” comment was trying to get at. You weren’t able to come up with anything better, but it finally made sense.
Things had been magical for the past seven months, but by the time the eighth month rolled around she was ready to be done. Thankfully her feet hadn’t swelled much, even as she continued her daily walks, but her skin grew sore with her swollen belly and the aches and pains that come from carrying another little person. For the last couple weeks she spent most of her time with her feet up, not moving. You told her to take a pain reliever, the one the doctors recommended, but she refused. She wouldn’t take any kind of risk, even something as banal as Aceaminophen. She was stubborn, more stubborn than you for sure, so you didn’t fight it. You’d sit at the end of the couch and gently massage her sides and neck while she watched “Sharknado” on Netflix for the sixth time. Her black, curly hair smelled so fresh when she reclined on you.
Today though, about half way through a CGI’d shark meeting the business end of a chainsaw, she pushed herself off your chest. “Oh…oh!” She covered her mouth and pointed. Oh? Oh! Her water broke! Since then it’s been a stressful loop of the last nine months worth of memories and trying to obey traffic laws as you make your way to the hospital.
Once you arrive the waiting begins: waiting for a room to be available, waiting for the doctors and nurses to attend to her, and waiting through the contractions. Unbeknownst to you, contractions can become extremely painful, even early on in the birthing process. She’s never experienced this much pain before, but she’s walking and breathing through it like a champ. You watch and encourage her as best you can, caught in the dissonance between joyful pride in your wife’s breathtaking endurance, and gut wrenching pity for her suffering.
Hours creep by and, as her contractions quicken, you start to wish that you had taken that birthing class. You don’t feel prepared to help her through this, but she squeezes your hand and breathes through another contraction before resting her head on your shoulder. She’s panting and sweat is beading on her forehead. “You’re doing so great”, she whispers, and you almost believe her as she tenses and squeezes your hand again.
Another hour creeps by, the contractions continue, but none of the nurses or doctors have checked on her in a while. Her complexion has grown pale and her pain is growing much worse. Is this normal? You gently hug her exhausted body and tell her you’ll be right back. Footsteps echo in the hallway as you look for a nurse. I’m not going to panic, this is probably totally normal, you tell yourself. You manage to catch a nurse speed walking down the hall. You explain what’s happening and ask her to send someone to check on your wife.
“We’ll have someone there as soon as possible, sir”, she says and continues on her way.
You walk through the sterile labyrinth to your room. You carefully, quietly open the door and enter the room. Your wife is sitting on the birthing ball, head in her hands. She attempts an exhausted grin when she sees you. You smile back, but even through her thick, black curls you can tell something is wrong. Her face has lost its richness umber tones even in the time you were gone, and fresh blood speckles her frock.
“Baby, I think something’s wrong”, she says, as the smile slowly fades away.
“O.K. I’ll go get someone. Just try to rest for now”, you respond.
You can’t manage to get anyone’s attention as doctors and nurses pace up and down the corridors, ignoring or brushing you off. Only the nurse from earlier stops and listens, so you plead with her to send someone right away. She explains to you that this is a particularly busy night, and you’ll have to wait your turn. But we can’t wait. Your voice and hands begin to shake as you try explain the situation a second time -she cuts you off- “Sir, your wife just isn’t a priority right now” she says before walking away.
You return to the room and tell her that someone will be in soon. It is hard to tell if this upsets her or if exhaustion has drained that capacity. The cheap, hospital couch creaks when you sit next to her, and you notice more spots of blood have appeared. You wait, cradling her through contractions for several hours.
The door finally creaks open, and a nurse comes in to check on you both. She checks your wife’s vitals and turns pale herself. She tells you she’ll be back with the doctor to check up on her. The minutes spent waiting feel like hours, but it isn’t actually long before the doctor pokes his head in the room. He says nothing as he checks her vitals and notes the bleeding. His expression never changes from perpetual disinterest as he tells the nurses to get her to the ICU. You spring to your feet and start asking questions. What’s happening? Why are you taking her to the ICU?
“Sir, you just have to wait here. We’ll tell you more when we know.”
You manage to kiss her hand before they usher her out of the room. You take a seat. You’re trembling, and you feel sick. Two more hours go by, you ask about her again, and again they tell you to wait. Finally, after another hour, the doctor comes in the room. His face hasn’t changed since last time -that’s good right?
“Sir, I have some bad news. Your wife had severe internal hemorrhaging. If we had known sooner then maybe -but, no one could have known. We couldn’t save her. I’m sorry for your loss.”
You wait a moment on the couch, before a nurse asks you to leave the room. Other patients are waiting.
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