Chapter Twenty-Four #2
She checks something on the monitor. “You want to talk about an epidural?”
“God, yes.”
She smiles. “Most people try to tough it out for a while first. I respect a man who knows what he wants.” She pages the anesthesiologist and looks at Marcello. “This part is quick but he needs to hold very still. You can stand in front of him.”
The anesthesiologist is a tall woman with steady hands and a calm voice who explains everything she’s doing before she does it.
She has me sit on the edge of the bed and curl forward, chin to chest, arms braced on Marcello’s shoulders.
He stands in front of me, solid as a wall, and I grip the fabric of his shirt and focus on breathing.
“Small pinch,” she says. “Then pressure. Don’t move.”
The pinch is nothing. The pressure is strange, a deep, invasive sensation in my spine that makes my skin crawl.
A contraction starts to build while she’s working and I lock every muscle in my body and press my forehead into Marcello’s chest and ride it out without moving.
His hands are on my arms, holding me steady.
Twenty seconds. Thirty. The contraction crests and I’m still frozen, teeth clenched, breathing hard against his shirt.
“Done,” she says. “You’ll start feeling relief in a few minutes.”
She tapes everything down and I lie back and wait.
Marcello watches me like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
And then, slowly, the next contraction builds and it’s different.
I can feel the tightening, the pressure in my belly, but the edge is gone.
The sharp grinding thing that made me want to climb out of my own body has been replaced by something distant and heavy.
Like hearing thunder from inside a house.
“Oh,” I say. “Oh, that’s better.”
Maureen nods. “Rest while you can. You’ve got a long afternoon.”
She’s right. Everything changes after the epidural.
The contractions keep coming, I can see them on the monitor, peaks and valleys scrolling across the screen, but they’re something happening to a body I’m only partially connected to.
The pressure is still there, low and constant, but it’s become background noise instead of the main event.
I doze between checks. Marcello reads something on his phone with one hand and holds mine with the other.
At 3:15 p.m., something changes on the monitor.
I don’t pay much attention at first because I’m in the middle of a contraction.
My world has narrowed to the pressure in my pelvis and the rail under my sweaty hands.
I only notice something is different when Maureen moves to the monitor.
Her eyes focus and she presses a button on the wall.
“What’s happening?” Marcello is on his feet.
“His blood pressure is climbing.” Her voice stays calm. “It happens sometimes in active labor. Nothing to panic about.” She looks at me. “Elio, I need you on your left side.”
I roll over, which is harder than it sounds when you’re nine months pregnant and mid-contraction.
Maureen adjusts the monitors. Another nurse appears.
They put something in my IV. Dr. Vasquez comes in, and I can tell by the way she moves, quick and alert, but not alarmed, that this is serious but not an emergency.
“Blood pressure is 150 over 95,” Maureen says.
“Okay.” Dr. Vasquez checks the fetal monitor. “Baby’s tolerating it fine. Heart rate is stable.”
“Something is wrong, isn’t it?” I ask, holding Marcello’s hand. I’m scared, but his touch comforts me.
She smiles. “Everything is fine. This isn’t uncommon. Having a baby is stressful on the body. But we’re going to watch your pressure closely. The medication should bring it down within a few minutes. I want you to stay on your side for now.”
“Is the baby okay?” My voice comes out more panicked than I want.
“The baby is fine. Heart rate is strong.” She puts her hand on my arm. “This is manageable.”
“See,” Marcello rumbles. “Everything is going to be fine, Elio. We’ll just trust the professionals to do their jobs. They’re not going to let anything bad happen.” There’s a warning in his voice.
Dr. Vasquez seems to notice too because she gives a nervous laugh. “Absolutely. Elio is in good hands.”
Ten minutes later the medication does its job. My blood pressure drops to 135 over 85. Maureen gives a satisfied nod and says “better.” The second nurse leaves. The room settles again.
By 5:15 p.m., I’m at nine centimeters and the epidural is losing ground.
The contractions have merged into something almost continuous, each one rolling into the next with barely a gap, and I can feel them again.
Not like before, not that raw full-body assault, but close.
The pressure is enormous, deep and inescapable.
“Ten centimeters,” Maureen announces at 5:40 p.m. “Full dilation. You’re ready to push.”
Dr. Vasquez positions herself. Two nurses flank the bed. Marcello is at my head, one hand in mine, the other on my shoulder. The overhead light clicks on and the room goes bright and clinical. My whole body is vibrating, and I don’t know if it’s fear or adrenaline or both.
“Okay, Elio, on the next contraction, I’ll need you to push,” Dr. Vasquez says. “Bear down hard. You’ll feel the pressure increase. That’s normal. That’s what we want.”
The contraction comes and I push. The pressure becomes something else entirely, a fullness so extreme it feels like my body is trying to turn itself inside out.
I hear myself make a sound that isn’t a scream and isn’t a groan, something rawer than either.
Maureen says “good, that’s good.” I push again.
Three contractions. Four. Dr. Vasquez coaches and counts. Her voice is steady and it reassures me I can do this. Marcello’s hand is in mine and I’m squeezing hard enough to do damage but he doesn’t pull away.
“I can see the head,” Dr. Vasquez says. “One more, Elio. Give me everything you’ve got.”
“Oh, God,” I whimper.
“You can do it, mio,” Marcello whispers.
Nodding, I bear down. There’s a burning stretch that peaks and holds and then a sudden release, a sliding rush, and a weight that was inside me is suddenly gone. The empty sensation is followed by a cry. A thin and furious announcement of the baby’s arrival.
I can’t see much from where I am, just Dr. Vasquez’s hands moving and Maureen beside her with a towel. The crying fills the room, and I try to life my head so I can see something. Marcello’s grip on my hand has gone slack for the first time in hours.