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Those prayers never came from the heart.
But this one does.
The first time I heard the thump-thump of the heart rate playing in the room slowly during Sadie’s contractions, I nearly shouted in my head for God’s help. I begged him. Apologized. Promised I’d do better. He could have my soul if that’s what He wanted. My undying devotion.
Just don’t take either of these two people from me.
The doctor is nice enough to warn Sadie and me that he’s about to hit an alert button that will make everything feel very frantic and scary. He tried to warn us. But when nurses and doctors start rushing in and things start moving around, there is no warning that could stop us from feeling this terror.
Sadie is sobbing, reaching for me as if I can stop any of this. If I could, I would.
All I can do is pray.
A sweet nurse tries to console her. She tells her these things happen all the time, but it’s like she doesn’t understand. This is our baby. It might happen to other people’s babies, but never to ours.
As they whisk Sadie out of the room, they explain to her that I’ll be prepped as well and will meet her in the room, but nothing could prepare me for what it’s like to feel her hand let go as she’s rolled away.
The tremble in her bones transfers to mine.
One of the nurses guides me to where I’ll need to be prepped, and I feel Isaac behind me. He follows me for as long as he can, but then we reach a door he isn’t allowed to cross into. I turn to him with panic and fear in my eyes, and see that the expression is mirrored in his.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says astutely. “I’ll be here for you. No matter what.”
I could cry with how good that feels. “The family,” I mutter through chattering teeth.
“I’ll call Mom,” he says.
“The rest,” I stutter.
He pauses. And my brain is so drunk on adrenaline I don’t realize what I’m asking. After a deep, sober breath, he nods. “I’ll call them too.”
“Isaac,” I mutter but the nurse behind me touches my arm.
“We have to be going,” she says briskly.
“It’s fine,” Isaac says, waving me away. “Everything will be fine.”
I want to hug him. I want to cry into his shoulder and let him convince me that everything will be fine, but I have to be with Sadie. So I follow the nurse.
It’s a whirlwind from there. I’m rushing through the whole process with shaking hands, but she assures me that they won’t start without me. I’m scrubbed up, covered from head to toe, and guided down another hallway until we’re in a sterile, cold operating room.
I see Sadie strapped to a table, tears streaming down her red face, and I practically sprint across the space to get to her.
The doctors and nurses are all talking, prepping things, but I can only focus on her. As our eyes meet, it feels like something cosmic and powerful. It’s a new version of us, a new couple that experiences terror and trauma together. But I don’t want her to know either of those things so I quickly pull it together and softly stroke her face.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I whisper. “You’re doing so good. Look at how amazing you are.”
“Just keep talking to me,” she cries.
So, I do. I just keep her eyes on me as I tell her every good and amazing thing about her that I love. Like how she sings to herself and dances when she eats and leaves her shoes all over my house. She manages a smile just before the doctor announces that she’s going to feel some pressure.
Sadie seems drugged and dazed but she holds my eyes as we wait, the curtain draped over her abdomen to block our view from the rest of her body. I assume this is going to take a long time. It’s quiet for a moment.
And then…
A cry.
A loud, wailing screech, vigorous and mighty.
