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She had been laboring for three days, and twice they sent her home without an idea that she was suffering from an OP baby, you know, the kind that give you a pain in the back, and meet the world face up?

When I finally arrived at the hospital my young mother was a wreck. She lay out stretched on the hospital bed, wired and hosed like an old T.V from the 80’s. Her left arm held the Iv, her right was the pulse ox, the BP cuff,and strapped across her large round protruding belly was the beast.
The fetal monitor.

I sighed, disheartened, this was to be my first. My very FIRST birth on my own, with no mentor, no guide, no soothing gentle well worn hand of the Doulas who had seen a thousand births before me.

She was my first, and she already had an epidural.

DAMN.

She was sweet, young and exhausted. her partner, nervous as a march hare listened to each word I said, each reassuring, honest, fact based, science proven word. I saw his shoulders ease as did hers when I gently rested my hand on her belly and felt her first son respond to my ginger touch. Like a flutter of a hundred butterfly wings, I felt his feet.

But soon the quiet of our meeting and the soothing of my words was thrown to the way side my a noisy, blustering OB who insisted on checking my sleepy mom’s cervix at that moment, in her first moment of sleeping peace.

Damn. I wanted to chase them out.

I wanted to let her relax and start this on her own.He insisted on breaking her bag of waters, touting …”Now don’t worry, this will get the birth started no time…” But little did he mention the devisating fact that nearly 99% of premature babies comes from an idle OB insisting that the time is now rather then natures hand.

DAMN.

But I was the alien visitor, along side with the relaxed dressed father, and the poor institutionalized mother. I stood out against their familiar pale green, my own brilliant blue shirt, and earth toned pants made me a site for their sharp eyes.

The OB eyed my speculatively as he watched the Mother’s partner turn to me for a nod, or shake of the head. He had broken the sac before my tired eyed father had a chance to argue otherwise, while his partner watched on with confusion, after she rejected the offer. But it was done.

My heart sank as he then mentioned the risks, post bag breaking. Now he tells her that if she doesn’t deliver in 24 hours she will be subject to a Cesarean section. I  saw the fear swallow my mother, the easing and patients of the hours before gone in a single flush of carelessly placed words. With his task done, and waters dripping from the bed, he left us, soaking in our thoughts.

My mind reeled as I came to sit beside them while the nurse pushed a towel around my mothers back side. She clasped my hands and asked if what he said was true.

I smiled again, but she was no fool and read my face. Leaning back on her pillow, hand in mine, she turned with her clipped Spanish accent.

“Then, we must be the clock!” With a firm squeeze I replied…”There are NO clocks in birth, no time, no hours. Only moments, let us not worry about that ‘moment’ until we get there.”

Part I. END