Today It Was Me

Today I was the one to cram myself into the white zip-up jumpsuit that made me look like the Easter Bunny's long lost sister. I was the one who slipped on the blue booties and hairnet, and tied on my face mask.

Today I was the one sitting on the bench in the hall while they wheeled my writhing, sobbing partner into the unknown.  I was the one who wondered if the anesthesia would work or if they would need to knock her out and the next time I saw her she'd have a baby in her arms.

An older man sat down next to me on the bench.  "You doin' okay?" He asked, and he genuinely cared about my answer.  I could tell by the way his gentle eyes rested on mine.  My bootie-covered toes tapped the carpet.  "Yeah, I'm good."  Because I was good, protected from terrifying reality by the distance of professionalism.  She was not my blood or my reason for being, but rather someone who knew she would need help when her child was born.  It's easy to be good when you don't stand to risk it all.  Then I asked the concerned gentleman about the newest addition to his family.  It was a granddaughter, his son's first child.  He beamed, then busied himself texting and grumbling at his new-fangled phone.

I wondered if that muffled cry was her.

"I promise they won't forget about you.  It just seems like it," said a nurse who had passed me twice now.

"I'm just hot."  My body heat collected within the kinda-sterile clothing.  The rise in temperature brought my stomach to a boil, a particularly unpleasant feeling for someone about to step foot into an Operating Suite.  Pictures flashed in my mind of passing out on the OR floor, or vomiting on the face of the expectant mother.  I unzipped the bunny suit and fanned the air between my layers.

Eventually they called me back.  I was no longer on the verge of heat stroke--for that I was thankful.

"Sit on the grey chair next to her head," the nurse said.  "Don't touch anything blue."

I sat in the grey chair.  My partner barely acknowledged me.  Almost immediately, the smell of burning flesh filled the air.  Then it was gone.

We don't see a thing, just a giant blue tissue curtain.  Somewhere beyond that the baby floated in a sea of instructions and chatter.

My partner wished to relay a request to the surgeon, the last two items left on an X-ed- out birth plan. Her voice failed from long hours of struggled breathing.  She turned to me to be her voice.  Neither of us knew who was there or who would hear us.  I turned to the anesthesiologist, who clearly didn't want to interrupt the surgical team.  She could see the team, though.  I was just guessing.

"Lots of pressure,"  Someone said.

"You're going to feel some tugging.  Just concentrate on your breathing," Someone else said.

We stared at the blue abyss and waited for the next thing to happen.

The baby cried and gurgled, cut off by someone's bulb suctioning.

"It's your baby!"  I smiled.  Tears filled her bloodshot eyes.  "Congratulations, Mama!"

The baby traveled to another end of the OR, X-ing off the rest of my partner's wishes.  A nurse remarked about what a sweetheart the baby was, and how adorable.  We saw blue while a stranger spent those first precious moments with my partner's baby.  This didn't upset the mother nearly as much as it upset me.  I wanted to brave the gore and hospital policy to grab the little one and put her where she belonged--cheek-to-cheek with the one whose body took care of her for nine months.  But I didn't, because today I wasn't the doula.  I was something else, entirely.