I had some trouble coming up with a title for this portion of the story. “Standstill” came to mind, but didn’t quite capture the feeling that we were up against around midnight that night. We had paced ruts in the floor, dimmed the lights and rocked on the birthing ball, and tried to will this baby into coming for several hours. The contractions were very strong now, and more regular, but still just five minutes apart and not the three minute spacing that really gets things to the end. In gentle tones the doctor would mention the option to break the water – never forcing the issue because they respected our decision to forgo any unnecessary interventions. But by midnight we all came together to talk it through. For some reason I seemed to have a bag of water made of steel – there was no sign that this thing was going to break on its own anytime soon. So essentially we were at a standstill – we were stuck at the awful level six, the cushiony comfort that the baby had resided in for almost ten months was now cushioning the hard work that needed to be done to finish the job. I could choose to continue at this for hours longer, maybe even days, or we could choose to rupture the bag and move onto the next part of labor while we still had some strength and some wits about us. They quietly left the room, leaving us to discuss it together. We put our heads together, thought about the work that was still to come, and then smiled at each other. We were ready to get this show on the road. Lord knows I had put enough miles on that road – walking through the morning sickness, the pains and aches of pregnancy strains and the weeks of early labor signs in the heat of the summer. I was done walking. It was time. “I love you,” I said to him. “You can do this,” he said to me. We pushed the call button and waited for the nurse’s voice at the other end. “We’re ready,” we said. “Let’s have a baby.”
