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Me: Water just broke.
A: Don’t play Mami
Me: I’m not lol there’s water everywhere
Me: You’d better book a flight. Looks like you’re gonna be a dad again soon
A: OMG
A: Are you okay?
Me: Fine. Just freaking out a little
A: Me too
Me: You’d better be here when this baby comes
A: I’ll try my best Mami
Me: Try harder lol
A: lol
A: Did you call the doctor yet
Me: No, I’m talking to you
A: Call the doc
Me: I will. Don’t worry
A: Now
Me: I will. I am. This is me calling.
With a sigh, I look up the number for the midwife and am immediately connected with a woman who assures me that the midwife on call will contact me right back.
I start packing the bag that I should have already packed with the essentials, then I text Mark and let him know what’s going on. We’ve already discussed the plan and decided that when I had to go to the hospital, he’d step in and watch after our kids.
I don’t like the idea of him being around when I’m not, especially in my home where I can’t ensure he’ll stay out of my things, but I don’t have much of an alternative.
It’s still early, so I don’t hear back from him right away, but I’m not worried about it. The kids are old enough to be alone for a while, especially with a teenage brother to keep a lookout on things.
When the midwife calls, she asks a few quick questions about contractions, but when she hears that my water has broken, it’s a done deal. At the risk of infection, the baby is coming out today, one way or another.
She gives me directions on what to do, where to go, and who to speak to at the hospital, and I agree to meet her there within the hour. Then I hit the shower, hating the idea of being seen by anyone looking like I was just dragged through a sewer. I end up going through my entire routine, even slapping on some makeup and drying my hair. I draw the line at curling it though—I don’t want to look like I’ve tried too hard.
The kids are bleary-eyed when I tell them what’s happening and what I need from them. The youngest wants to come with me, but I talk her into staying home and helping keep the house together and watching over the pets instead. Then I’m driving myself to the hospital, feeling more than a little alone and a whole lot scared for what’s to come.
Alejandro and I texted until the pain grew too much for me to focus on typing. Last I knew, he was still trying to find his way back to me, assuring me he’d be here one way or another. The problem is that neither of us know when that will be. He could very well miss the birth of our child, and that makes me anxious as hell.
I don’t want to do this alone, and nurses, like family and friends, only provide a small amount of comfort during a time when there’s only one person in the world who can give you what you truly need.
I pray through unrelenting waves of contractions that he’ll make it in time, but a little voice inside of me says he won’t. I’m on my own here.
Naturally, I’m upset. I feel like everything this last year has just been working against me. The universe must hate me. It’s as if every roadblock and pit in the road it can throw at me, it has. Yes, there have been some good things to come out of it all, but why does every damn thing have to be such a production? Is it really necessary for life to be this hard? All I want is for the father of my child to be by my side through this, to offer me what little comfort he can and to witness our child enter the world—it’s a moment you can’t ever get back, and I want more than anything to share it with him.
Unfortunately, that’s not to be the case.
