17. Mahasin
Mahasin
(Christmas Eve)
M y living room smelled like roasted marshmallows and vanilla, and my eight-foot Christmas tree stood in the corner like it belonged in Chanel’s storefront window for their holiday campaign.
Decorated in black velvet ribbons, looped through white pearl garland, and pink glass ornaments, I could stare at it forever.
“Next year you’ll be sitting right there, making a mess with the wrapping paper,” I said as I rubbed my belly.
A craving for the s’mores I made earlier tugged at me, so I waddled toward the kitchen to satisfy it. Halfway down the hallway, a tightness gripped low across my abdomen. The pain wasn’t sharp enough to raise concern, but it did stop me in my tracks.
“Probably Braxton Hicks. You’re fine, girl,” I said to myself.
Bracing my hand on the wall, I waited it out, counting a few breaths until the pressure eased. The medical part of my brain knew I should go sit down, but the pregnancy part made my mouth water for my snack, so I continued my pursuit of happiness.
Then a sudden gush of warmth flooded between my legs, causing me to look down.
“Aw, shit.”
I didn’t need a medical degree to know my water had broken.
I let out a frustrated sigh, shifting my weight slightly as I looked at the growing stain beneath me. “Not the Essentials sweatsuit,” I fussed, annoyed. “Damn it, this was the cream one too.”
“Alexa, call Gage Blaque.”
The device chimed and dialed, but there was no answer.
“Alexa, repeat the call.”
Voicemail.
I stared at the ceiling, breathing through a sharper pain than before.
“And so it begins,” I whispered, grounding myself.
Keeping my breathing slow and steady, I summoned my girl.
“Alexa, call Amber.”
The ring barely finished before her voice burst through the speaker.
“Merry Christmas, bitch!”
“Merry Christmas, crazy girl. You busy?” I asked, my voice was much calmer than the situation deserved.
“Not really. Creed and I are watching This Christmas. Lawd, Idris can get it — this Christmas, that Christmas, next Christmas—”
“Aight, relax,” Creed cut in, clearly tired of her shit.
“Anyway, what’s up?” she asked.
“My water broke,” I responded like I had just dropped a Pellegrino on the floor.
“What?! Mahasin, why you say that shit like you broke the strap on your purse? Where are you?” she yelled.
Another contraction built, stealing my breath for a moment.
“Mahasin!” she hollered.
“I’m here, I’m here,” I exhaled. “My contractions are coming faster and stronger. I need to change and—”
“Did you call Gage?” she cut in. I could hear her grabbing keys in the background.
“I tried twice. No answer.”
“Of course.” She sighed. “Okay, listen — call the ambulance. I’m on my way.”
A loud thud echoed through the line.
“What was that?” I asked, more concerned about the noise then what was currently happening with my body.
“Girl, I done fell up the stairs fucking with you,” she complained.
Even at mid-contraction, I laughed. I could hear her rubbing her knee through the phone.
“Amber. Calm down. I’m fine. I’m going to change. My hospital bags are in the trunk. Just catch a ride here — you’ll beat the ambulance.”
“Don’t doctor me, Mahasin! I’m coming!”
Alexa made a beep, indicating the call had ended. I laughed softly, then bent forward as another contraction swept through. This one wrapped around my lower back; the kind of pain you felt when you had to take a shit but had to hold it because you were stuck in traffic.
I breathed in slow through my nose, out through my mouth—just like I’d coached hundreds of patients to do. Only now do I understand why they could never concentrate on breathing.
This shit hurt like Hell.
“Okay, baby girl,” I whispered. “Guess you really want to make your debut tonight.”
The mini elevator, opened to the soft glow of my bedroom. A few steady steps brought me to the dresser, just in time to brace myself before another sharp pain gripped my lower back.
Slipping out of my house clothes, I took a quick shower using the medical shower chair Gage had installed.
When I hit the stage of pregnancy where I couldn’t see my feet, he had a few renovations done to my home: the bathroom shower upgraded for safety, the garage expanded to now house the Lamborghini Urus he bought for me to drive his daughter around in—as if my Mercedes wasn’t good enough—and the mini elevator so I didn’t have to walk up my cascading stairs.
He was always concerned about my comfort and safety. Even when I pretended, I didn’t need the help… I did.
“Ugh, why hasn’t he called me back by now?” I huffed, breathing through another contraction.
After finishing my shower and maneuvering around the tightening in my abdomen, I moisturized my body, brushed my teeth, and completed my fragrance routine. Labor could take hours, and I wasn’t about to be uncomfortable and smell like anything less than edible.
I slipped into a loose maxi dress, slid my socked feet into sneakers, grabbed my coat and keys, and made my way to the truck to wait for Amber.
We pulled up to the hospital, and I swear Amber jumped out before she even put the truck in park.
“You can’t park here,” security said, approaching the vehicle.
I opened the passenger side door as Amber retrieved my bags from the trunk.
“Dr. St. James?” the guard gasped. “Here, let me help you.”
He took my hand and helped me out of the truck, then called for wheelchair assistance on his walkie.
“That’s more like it, Carter, ‘cause I was prepared to lay all into your ass,” Amber said. “Park Dr. St. James' car in her spot, please and thank you. Punk-ass nigga,” she muttered.
“Amber!” I laughed as two nurses helped me into the wheelchair. “Be nice.”
“Nah, he doesn’t do his job any other time, but when he sees it’s females, he's all tough and shit. Little ass uniform.”
“Ouch,” I said, even though I was still laughing. The contractions I was feeling now were strong enough to make my eyes water.
Inside, the staff lit up seeing it was me being checked into the maternity suite.
“Dr. St. James! It’s time?” one nurse gasped.
Taking over the wheelchair from the nurse and pushing me to my assigned room, Amber whispered in my ear, “Why are they so excited to see you? Your ass be working them like mules.”
“Bitch, I have no clue, but if I mysteriously become somnolent, don’t let them all come playing in my vagina.”
We laughed in unison as Amber pointed her index finger at me, indicating that she had my back.
The birthing unit was cozy and warm, with flowers stationed on a table that read "Welcome." The radiant warmer, located across from the bed, would soon become the host spot for my baby girl. I’d seen these rooms hundreds of times as a doctor, but looking through the eyes of a patient was a different feeling. I was both excited and scared—and to be honest, that wasn’t a good feeling.
The room seemed smaller. The tools seemed bigger. The lights seemed brighter. Every sound was amplified—from wheels rolling to monitors beeping. I didn’t feel myself exhaling until I was changed into the hospital gown and hooked up to the monitors.
Amber hovered beside me. She took a soft brush and tended to my hair, knowing I would want it pulled back into a ponytail.
“One to ten, how bad is the pain?” she asked.
“Twelve.”
“Then why the hell are you not screaming? Girl, you over here looking like a runway model, smelling all good and shit, talking about your pain is twelve. ”
I laughed. “’Cause I’m thinking about the pleasure that got me here,” I sighed, forcing a grin.
She snorted. “Speaking of pleasure—did he call back?”
I shook my head. “No. He’s on vacation and probably has his phone off.”
“Uh-uh. He loves you. It’s that fire-head, struck-match-looking bitch that turned it off if it is. I mean, I can’t be too mad at her, though. I’d probably turn Creed’s phone off too if he had a bad bitch baby mama.”
That made me laugh. However, regret stuck, because the next contraction rode in on it—mean, like the ushers in a Baptist church. My stomach clenched so hard I gasped. Amber grabbed my hand.
The sting behind my eyes wasn’t all due to the contractions.
What if he doesn’t make it? What if this was how it started—me raising this baby alone?
Would he miss every milestone—every birthday?
Would my baby feel the confusion and emptiness I feel now?
I don’t understand—his promises were so loud.
Please God, don’t let his actions be silent.
Calm down, Mahasin, I thought to myself.
Two of my favorite delivery nurses came into the room—Krista and Tiana.
Krista checked my vitals and recorded the information on the monitors, while Tiana checked the intensity of my contractions.
Throughout my years of working at this hospital, many delivery nurses have expressed interest in being my mentees but have been too fearful to ask.
Krista and Tiana emailed my assistant to schedule a meeting with me.
Their initiative, persistence, and the fact that they both are African American women who graduated at the top of their class impressed me.
It wasn’t the best time for me to become a mentor—seeing as I had just opened Serenity—but I couldn’t say no.
I’ve been on their asses ever since, making sure they understood the importance of staying on top of their craft, showing up professional and ready, never dimming their light, and most importantly, continuing to uphold medical integrity.
“Dr. Mathers just walked in and should be in here shortly,” Tiana assured me.
“Alright, but you two don’t go too far. If an emergency warrants your attention, let Mesha and Victoria know they are your backups,” I instructed, winking at my girls. I was so proud of them.
Thoughts of me having the same pride in my baby girl—who, by the pain and frequency of these contractions, would be here soon—washed over me.
“Et-um, Mahasin,” Amber whispered. “Who is Dr. Mathers?”