Remy
REMY
Did you know due dates are only guidelines, and that only about five percent of women give birth on their actual due date? Obviously, you don’t know which group you’ll be a part of, but for the last two months, I’ve had this feeling that I would go into labor earlier rather than later.
And I was right.
Last night, four days before my due date, Simone and I were sitting on the couch, exactly as we had the first ever time Simone came over to the house, when she’d had her palms read (I owe Mum a massive apology for ever doubting her palm-reading skills because how accurate was she about Simone?), and Simone had gone through my family photo album.
We’d finished watching Mean Girls , which Simone rated a solid nine out of ten, but throughout the film and for the last couple of weeks, my stomach had felt tighter and there’s been an even more prominent pressure around my pelvis.
The first time we went to the doctor about it, they said it was Braxton-Hicks, and real contractions come at regular intervals.
Since then, I’ve been doing my best to ignore the fake contractions until they stop.
After the mandatory film debrief, we eventually called it a night.
Simone has taken to sleeping over and in the same bed the past couple of days, just in case I need any sort of help, even though Mum is only across the landing.
It’s in bed that the pain grows stronger and the contractions closer together, and I know it’s time.
I nudge Simone again. She groans at first but then jolts up.
“Remy? Are you okay?”
“I think it’s happening,” I whisper.
Simone switches on the bedside lamp. “Your waters? Are you sure?”
“Either that or I’ve been peeing for a while.”
“I know which one I’d prefer. I’ll wake your mum.” Simone jumps out of bed, but before heading to the door, she turns to me. “Hey,” she says quietly. “It’s going to be a long couple of days. Are you ready?”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m ready.”
You hear a lot about childbirth, about pooping, stitches, tearing from one hole to the other, and you can watch all the videos, read all the books, and listen to all the retold experiences, but nothing will come close to the real deal.
The contractions come like sharpened jabs, and before the epidural eases the pain, my back and hips are on fire while my stomach and sides are being crushed with the force of tons.
I don’t know what I’m saying or doing or even where I am for moments at a time until they place my daughter on my chest, and the world goes quiet.
I can only focus on the warm weight and soft touch.
The nurses are telling me things and I’m nodding even though I can’t hear what I’m agreeing to.
I bend my head down to look at her. She’s beautiful, with wrinkles in her forehead and cries leaving her mouth.
I love her.
Of course I love her. My ability to love has never been in doubt and my assumption that she would deserve all the love, energy, and attention in the world is proved by how heavily my heart beats when I look at her, and although I’ll cry today, tomorrow, and maybe every day after for months, looking into the eyes of my next greatest love, I know I’m making the right decision.