Chapter 26: Gavin
This labor is so much worse than the last.
It’s not that it’s harder on Corabelle. In fact, once the contractions increase enough that labor is inevitable and the epidural is set up, she sleeps through half of them.
It’s just so terrifying. With Finn, we were teenagers and had this stupid naive optimism. We had no idea anything could go wrong.
This time, I know what is on the line.
Corabelle’s parents arrive late evening, and she barely acknowledges their presence before tucking back down into her pillow. They gave up on flights and just drove straight through.
“Oh, baby, you seem so distraught,” Mrs. Rotheford says. But I don’t know how she gets that. Corabelle’s face is a mask. The nurses keep saying she is so calm and collected. I guess mothers just know.
The contractions are only a couple minutes apart when the nurse comes in and says she’s dialing down the epidural. “It’ll be time to push,” she tells Corabelle. “You’ll want to feel it.”
Corabelle’s expression makes it clear that no, she does not want to feel anything. Her eyes follow the nurse as she approaches the little machine at the end of the epidural line and punches on the buttons.
I don’t know anything to do to make this any better. You see what a birth is supposed to be like in movies or on TV, and it doesn’t line up with what I’ve ever experienced.
Definitely not today.
I wish I had a magic wand that could sprinkle fairy dust over the room and turn everything merry and bright. The night nurse comes in with her holiday scrubs and candy cane earrings, and it strikes me that this might be the worst Christmas season of my life.
“Sounds like we’re getting ready to push,” she says. She secures the monitor on Corabelle’s belly. “We’re going to keep extra-good focus on his heart all the way to the end.”
“All this has to stay on?” Corabelle asks.
“It does,” she says. “Until the doctor says it can come off.”
They lift the back of the bed so she’s more upright. The big stirrups are attached in case she wants them. She doesn’t.
Mr. Rotheford can’t take the strain and goes to find some vending-machine coffee.
The first contraction hits after the epidural is turned down, and Corabelle immediately starts crying.
“Isn’t it bad enough without hurting too?” she says.
“Oh, baby, you have to have faith,” her mother says. “You have to believe he’s going to be okay. Did you pick out a name?”
Corabelle shakes her head.
I bought a book of baby names a few weeks ago, but we never went through it. Until last night when we worked on the butterfly mobile, we had scarcely acknowledged that we were expecting a baby at all.
Her mother looks up at me. “Is the bassinet ready? The clothes washed? I can run home as soon as he’s born and get it all prepared.”
“It’s done, Mom,” Corabelle says, sounding a lot like her sixteen-year-old self. “I wasn’t completely useless.”
Her mother strokes her hair, fingers brushing out some of the tangles. “Okay, darling. That’s good. I think it will be fine once he’s here. The not knowing is what’s hard.”
She can say that again.
Another contraction comes, less than a minute after the first. One of the nurses stays down at Corabelle’s knees. The other hovers by the monitor.
“You’re doing great,” one says. “Not much more to go.”
But there is more to go. Another hour of pushing, in fact. Corabelle’s dad wanders in, sees his daughter all splayed open, and heads right back out again.
I hold one hand and her mother holds the other. Corabelle’s face is splotchy. She’s quit talking to any of us, going into some zoned-out state just to get through.
Finally Dr. Jamison rushes in, his gown flapping and loose. He’s wearing sweats and tennis shoes. He didn’t have to come, I know, but he did, in the middle of the night, so Corabelle could have her regular doctor.
“We have everyone on standby,” he says. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The head starts to come out, covered in white. I blink and blink, because the view is so much like last time with Finn that I can barely keep the two moments apart.
The team assembles, two men and a woman pushing a covered crib into the room. I don’t know what they expect, but for once they are doing more than I have asked for.
“Just one or two more good pushes,” Dr. Jamison says. His gloved hands cradle the baby’s head, turning it ever so gently. Then one shoulder pops out, then the other, and the baby slides free.
“Got him,” Dr. Jamison says. He suctions the baby’s mouth, and there are cries, loud and lusty. Everyone in the room visibly relaxes.
A nurse whisks away all the straps on Corabelle. For a brief moment, they let the baby rest on her belly.
She’s crying hard, absolutely sobbing, her hand on his head, as if this is the only moment she will ever have. There is no reason for her to think otherwise. It’s all she got before. Once Finn got wired up, we did not get to hold him again until it was time for him to die.
“Let’s check him out,” one of the doctors says and comes forward to take the baby.
“He’s beautiful,” Mrs. Rotheford says, wiping her eyes.
Corabelle’s gaze follows the baby over to the cart, but her view is blocked by the crew assessing him. I stay by her side. We can hear him crying, loud and indignant. I would laugh if I wasn’t so sure I might cry myself.
“He’ll go to the NICU since he’s premature,” Dr. Jamison says. “But if he’s stable enough, he’ll just be in a regular bed there, and you can nurse him and do all the usual mother-and-baby things.”
He strips off his gloves as the nurses work to clean up Corabelle and take away the stirrups and cotton pads.
After a moment, one of the doctors turns to us. “His Apgar is good, a seven. Excellent oxygen, good cry. Really, really good for his prematurity. We do hear a murmur, which isn’t unusual. We’re going to take him to clean up and then do a cardiac ultrasound just to be sure.”
Dr. Jamison stands. “Gavin, you can go with them if you like. Grandma, you should be here with Corabelle.”
He shakes my hand. “Congratulations. I’m thrilled for you both.”
The cart starts to move. “You want me to go with him?” I ask Corabelle.
She nods. “Just like Finn.” Then she’s bawling again.
Her mother holds her close. “I’ve got her,” she says. “Keep us updated.”
I follow the team with the baby. When I pass Mr. Rotheford sitting in the waiting area, I point to the Isolette rolling down the hall. “He’s here. Seems okay. Corabelle is in the room.”
He heads to his daughter. I totally agree with his choice, although I wouldn’t mind someone in my corner right now.
I guess I have the team, the specialists. We move past a nurse’s desk and through a back door into the NICU.
“You’ll need to scrub in,” a nurse says, pointing to the washing station. “There’s instructions.”
I remember the routine, the soap, the pick for your nails, how clean they want everything to be.
This NICU seems set up similarly to the one we were in before. The bigger, healthier babies are near the front, some lying in open cribs, others minimally wired up in covered ones.
As you go back, the room gets dimmer and quieter. Those babies have full gear, breathing tubes, ventilators, and multiple monitors. Finn was with those.
This baby is nowhere that I can see. I finally spot him in a brightly lit room with glass windows. I’m not sure if I can go in there. It seems separate.
I stand outside. I don’t know what they are doing, and this makes me start to feel a little crazy. Corabelle texts me to ask what is going on. I don’t know what to tell her.
One of the nurses sees me and goes to the door. “You can come in. We’re doing a short version of the cleanup. The cardiologist is on his way to assess his heart.”
A paper has been affixed to the end of the crib with the word MAYS in big letters, then “Baby Boy” written beneath. We need to give this boy a name. I feel deeply ashamed that we have nothing to call him.
I have another son. He is mine, sick or well. Whether he outlives me or dies today, he belongs to me.
A nurse cleans him gently with cotton balls while an assistant sets a few discs with wires on a tray. How long was it before they wired up Finn? When did the breathing tube go in? The details are fuzzy.
But this little guy isn’t weak. The room rings with his lusty howls.
“Getting plenty of oxygen,” one of the nurses says. “Filling those lungs so he can tell us about it.”
They don’t dress him, relying on a heat lamp above him instead.
“Wait for Dr. Simmons before you attach the leads,” one says. “He will want them off for the tests.”
The baby starts to settle down, probably from exhaustion. He has dark hair, and he’s long. His feet seemed oversized, toes splayed out.
I remember suddenly our second-choice name back when we were going through books with Finn. It pops in my head like a lightbulb coming on.
I pull out my phone to look it up. Seemed like it meant something we liked at the time.
When I see the search results, I know this is it.
I text it to Corabelle with a line of question marks.
I don’t know where her head space is. She might still be disassociating. She might be asleep.
But she writes back quickly.
Yes, she says. That’s it. That’s him.
I glance around and spot a marker on a counter. The nurse watches me as I pick it up and write his name on the paper taped to his bed.
Ethan.
Meaning: strong.