Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“Best cliché,” he says, kissing my temple.
Upstairs the chaos concentrates—hallways striped with battery-powered lanterns, nurses in sneakers moving like point guards, monitors chirping in an out-of-sync chorus. A carol from someone’s phone tumbles out of a nurses’ station speaker and collides with the generator bassline.
“Name?” a nurse asks me while walking, because there is no time for chairs.
I answer, then add, “It’s Christmas week, right? Do you have an elf on the shelf for this floor?”
“Four,” she says, not missing a beat. “They keep falling over when the power blips.”
“Excellent,” I groan, bending into Lucas as another contraction finds me. His hand lines my spine like a track, and I breathe along it.
A room appears. It’s small and clean. It’s lit by a generator-powered lamp and the kind of grit you only find in hospitals the week before major holidays. The nurse—her badge says Kelley, RN—moves like a storm herself, efficient and compassionate without leaking an ounce of energy she needs. “Gown if you want, or keep your clothes,” she says, like a choice I’m allowed to make. “I’m going to check you so we can decide our game plan.”
Lucas positions himself at my head, not because he can’t handle the rest of me but because he knows where I want him. He whispers the count-breath he taught me in the kitchen weeks ago. I hang on it like a rope over water.
“Two and a half,” Kelley tells us after a quick check. “You came early. Good call. Too many people wait.”
“Epidural?” I ask, too hopeful.
“Anesthesiologist is on the floor,” she says. “He’s triaging. With the blizzard and the outage, it might not be immediate. But I’ll get him.”
Lucas squeezes my hand under the blanket. “We can do hard things,” he murmurs.
“Hard things should come with a coupon,” I say, and Kelley barks a laugh as she tapes the monitors to my belly. The heartbeat whooshes into the room—strong, steady, an ocean tide under fluorescent hum. I cry again, but this time the tears feel like steam off something warming, not leaking.
The next hour is a collage. Nurse Kelley coaching me to keep my jaw loose and my moans low. Lucas massaging my lower back with the heel of his hand like he’s negotiating with the pain and winning concessions. A resident popping in to say Dr. Patel is on her way but stuck behind a plow, and the anesthesiologist is working his way down the hall by headlamp. The storm outside thumps against the windows; somewhere, very faintly, someone’s phone plays “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and I swear I will never make fun of carols again.
I lose track of time. Lucas doesn’t. He advocates like he always does—polite, clear, relentless. When my contraction pattern tightens, he is ready with ice chips and a cool washcloth. When it spaces again briefly, he bribery-smiles at Kelley and asks if I can sit on the ball. She nods, and the relief is so immediate I could propose to the ball.
The anesthesiologist finally arrives, cheeks flushed, hair under a cap, headlamp making him look like a coal miner. “You must be Peanut’s mom,” he says kindly. “We’ve got generator power in this room, hallelujah.”
I want to kiss him. I do not kiss him. We do the consent and the position and Lucas becomes the human you lean on when you are asked to curl around a basketball that is also your body. The world shrinks to my breath and his voice and hands on my shoulders anchoring me to a place that isn’t pain.
When it’s done, I sag, boneless and grateful. The relief isn’t total, but it’s a lifting, a widening of the room. I can laugh again without wanting to punch the air.
“Dr. Patel is two floors down,” Kelley announces, reading a text. “She walked up the last flight because the generator elevator is grumpy.” Bless that woman. Bless everyone who shows up in storms.
Time blurs again. Peanut’s heartbeat whooshes. Lucas counts and jokes and breathes with me, then sits in the bedside chair and strokes my hair when I drift. Snow thickens outside like someone turned up the static. The lights flicker once, and the generator grabs and holds. I say a little prayer to whoever maintains generators.
And then Dr. Patel blows in, cheeks pink, smile bright. “You couldn’t wait for a clear day?” she teases, pulling on gloves. She checks me, nods, checks again. “Okay. We’re rolling. Ten centimeters. Baby’s ready to star in their own holiday special.”
The words pass through me like a bell.
Kelley rearranges the room with the elegance of a stage manager. Lucas stands and the world narrows to his face, his voice, his hand in mine. “Eyes on me,” he says softly. “You’ve got this. I’m right here.”
I’m terrified. I tell him so in a rush whisper. “I’m so scared.”