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It took seven more contractions, three minutes apart, before we arrived at the Memorial Hospital entrance. Abandoning our imposing black SUV in the no-parking zone, I ran around the hood and yanked open the door so forcefully the vehicle rocked on its axel. Gripping Grace by the arms, I spoke in a gentle, encouraging tone.
“That’s it, Baby, you’re doing great, we’re here. It won’t be long before the doc can assess you and give you some drugs for the pain. No giving away our bedroom secrets when he does, by the way,” I joked, trying to ease the tension that had returned to the situation as we made our way into the hospital.
Grace scoffed at my comment as we entered the foyer and another painful wave stopped her dead in her tracks. She clung to the long metal door handle to steady herself while a kind, middle-aged hospital orderly appeared from nowhere with a wheelchair. I helped him ease my wife into it as her pain subsided again.
“Looks like we got ourselves an expensive new addition to the family on the way,” he teased, and I grinned in relief at his attempt to take the sting out of Grace’s discomfort.
“Hey, you’re that Cole erm…”
“Yeah, but I’m not the major attraction here, right?” I warned, and he glanced down at my wife and nodded.
As the contraction waned, Grace glanced up at the orderly and cussed under her breath. “This kid can have anything she wants, no questions asked. She just needs to be here already.” Another groan tore from her throat and she doubled over again, cradling her belly and I prayed for a quick end to this experience for her.
We rode the elevator to the fifth floor, where an obstetric nurse was waiting, clipboard in hand. Her beady eyes widened in surprise when she recognized who I was. I scowled and shot her a warning look not to acknowledge me. The last thing my wife needed was a fangirl fawning over me while she was in pain.
“Dr. Ken is waiting for you, Grace. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you settled and let him know you’ve arrived. There are a few papers to sign, Cole, but we can figure those out once we get Grace settled.” Insurance, I figured, dismissing it. Nothing was as important as Grace’s comfort.
Minutes passed after we entered the room and the Obstetric nurse squirted monitoring gel and attached monitoring pads to Grace’s bump. A wave of emotion swelled in my throat at the sound of our daughter’s steady heartbeat as it echoed loudly through the room. It was no secret we were having a girl; Grace had told everyone.
I noted the equipment had begun to record a series of squiggly lines onto the folded paper attached to a tray underneath. The nurse then focused on checking Grace’s vitals before she turned to us and smiled.
“Grace, your blood pressure is perfect right now. This…” she stated, pointing at the two traces being recorded, “top trace is your baby’s heart rate and you can see it fluctuate here. This means she’s awake and active right now. The graph at the bottom is showing us your contractions are every three minutes, which is regular and exactly what we like to see.”
“That’s the baby’s heartbeat?” I asked, pointing out the inked recording of it.
“Yes.” She smiled. “Your baby’s heart rate is increasing with each contraction at present, which is perfectly normal.” I smiled in awe of this.
Discussing the birthing plan with Grace, the nurse informed us Grace would have a shot of steroids to help mature the baby’s lungs for the birth.
As she was finishing talking, Dr. Ken strode into the room, looking like he’d come straight from a movie set with his expensive stethoscope around his neck and a pristine white laboratory coat covering his designer clothing. He had glossy blond hair, unblemished skin, and perfect, even white teeth. Way too attractive for a guy touching my wife.
Although I respected his profession, I hated that he was such a good-looking dude, because he had Grace’s permission to explore the most intimate parts of her body. Keeping my jealousy in check, I reminded myself he had clinical reasons for doing this.
Discussing the history of the previous few hours, it became clear Grace was unsure as to whether the sac of fluid around our baby had broken, admitting to small frequent trickles of liquid with each contraction.
After examining her abdomen, Dr. Ken confirmed the baby’s head was low in Grace’s pelvis and informed us he needed to take a swab from inside her entrance to make sure our baby hadn’t been exposed to any infection. My jaw ticked with tension at the thought of this.
Preparing an examination pack on a small mobile cart, the nurse rolled it close to the bed as the doctor washed his hands. After drying them, he snapped on some gloves and sat down on a stool at the edge of the bed, positioning Grace lower in preparation for the procedure.
After ensuring her hygiene he explained, “I’m using a speculum and once I take a germ culture I’ll also take a small swab test to check for the presence of amniotic fluid. This is important as your baby is a little premature and early rupture can predispose the increased risk of infection.”
Watching intently from the side of the bed, my beady, concerned eyes flicked from what he was doing at the business end to Grace’s face, and I noted her pain-filled eyes stare up into mine for reassurance.
“You’re doing great, Baby.”
Grace’s body sagged and she sighed with my encouragement, and my gaze returned to focus on the young doctor’s face. A frown creased his brow and his eyes narrowed, widened then shot in my direction. When he held my gaze a second too long I sensed something was wrong.
“Nurse, can you position the light closer please?” he instructed, focusing back on the point of interest between Grace’s legs again.
Hovering in the background, the nurse jumped, startled with the sharpness in his tone. Stepping forward, she repositioned the spotlight, and as her eyes fell between Grace’s legs a look of worry flitted through them. A short gasp hitched in her breath and Dr. Ken’s eyes darted to hers.
“What is it?” I asked, sensing immediately something was wrong.
“I’m collecting some samples to send to the laboratory for culture. Once I’ve done this, I’ll answer any questions you have,” the doctor said shutting me down.
Hearing our baby’s heart rate spike instantly in protest to his ministrations distracted me from him, but when I looked back at the doc he was handing the slides to the nurse. Standing quickly, he tidied everything back on the tray, flicked off the rubber gloves and discarded them into a stainless steel pedal bin.
With his back to us he washed his hands before he turned and addressed us. “Give me a few minutes to fill out the pathology and microbiology forms and I’ll come back to talk to you.”
