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Erica has a moment when she isn't in pain and asks me, "Did you call everyone?"
"Yes, I called our parents and Scott. Everyone else can wait till after she is born." Erica nods her approval.
Another wave, and she pants her way through it. The nurse comes back with the doctor.
"Hi, Erica, I'm the on-call obstetrician. I see here your regular doctor is in San Francisco. I've called and asked for any important information I should know about. You were in a car accident several months ago; is that correct?" Erica breathes through another wave and nods.
"The baby was not injured, even though you had abdominal bruising. It is not unusual for a mom to give birth early after a traumatic event like yours."
I breathe out, relieved. I was worried something was wrong.
The doctor touches Erica's arm. "I'm going to check on you now, okay?"
Speech has eluded Erica, replaced by panting, breathing, and groaning.
"You're at nine centimeters, Erica. You're doing great. Once we get to ten, you can push, okay? Not before then." The doctor leaves, and the nurse tells me what I should do once Erica pushes.
"Sit behind her, hold her up, and breathe. Keep her focused on breathing, okay, Dad?"
"I think I can do that." My part is easy compared to what Erica is about to do. I send a silent prayer up for a healthy mom and baby.
The nurse rechecks her and leaves the room.
The doctor returns and says, "You can start pushing now, Erica," as he settles before her.
I whisper, "You can do this, baby. Start pushing."
Erica gives it all she has and bears down, long and hard.
She leans back into me, and I whisper, "Great job. You're doing great, sweetheart."
Erica bears down again, and the doctor says, "Keep pushing, Erica. I can see the hair on your little girl's crown."
That motivates Erica, and she bears down again. "I can see the head now. Doing good. Keep pushing."
She bears down again. Suddenly, we hear a little cry, and I look at the doctor. He holds up our baby Rose, crying, kicking her legs, and waving her arms. She's blue and red and purple and perfect.
"Want to do the honors, Dad, and cut the umbilical cord?" He hands me a pair of surgical scissors and shows me how to cut.
I separate our daughter from her mother. The nurse takes her and gets her cleaned up. Erica rests against me.
"She's beautiful. She is so beautiful, babe. I know it's too soon to tell, but I'm sure she looks just like you." That gets a weak smile from an exhausted mom.
The nurse returns and asks me to leave while they help Erica get cleaned up and move her to a private room. I take the time to call everyone. They all say they want to see us, and I tell them that Erica will be in the hospital for a few days, any time after today. It's just us today — my little family.
Erica is sleeping when the nurse brings baby Rose in to start breastfeeding. I ask if I can hold my daughter while they get Erica up. She's so tiny in my arms. I check her fingers and toes. She has a lot of hair for a small baby. Her tiny eyes are closed tightly, and her little fingers have mittens. I pull one off and see her tiny fingernails. I'm in awe of this tiny being. This little human is part of me. I feel tears threatening to spill over my lids. Thank you to the big guy for blessing me with so much.
Erica is up, and the nurses have shown her what to do. I bring the baby over and gently place her in her mother's arms. The baby has no problem latching on, and breastfeeding is our first victory.
Rose falls back to sleep, and I come over and sit on the side of the bed.
"She's incredible, Erica. We made this tiny person together. She's part you and part me. A miracle." We laugh at that last part because it took a lie and a miracle to unite us.
I put my arm around her and my other arm around the arm holding our child. I asked the nurse if she would take a picture for us, handed her my phone, and got back into position. We smile for the camera, and the nurse presses the button, my family forever frozen in time. Pictures don't lie. All the love we have to give is right between us, swaddled and protected.
