The contractions were coming fast. The midwife had told me they might take some time to build up, hours or possibly even a few days, but this was no hesitant experience. They quickly increased, coming every few minutes, lasting longer and longer. I walked through the house, gripping the furniture for support as they grew stronger, rocking my hips, feeling the baby moving lower and lower. It was more intense now. When they came, I couldn't think of anything else. I was entirely in the moment, lost in the sensation, my only goal was to breathe, to get through it.
Now there was no abstract sense to each contraction. There had never been anything more real, more visceral than this. My fingernails clawed deep grooves into the soft wood of the banister as another one washed over me. A low animal moan rippled from my throat as I twisted my hips to and fro, feeling a pressure with the power of an erupting volcano build within my body. I found myself so caught up in the intensity, the agony, that I couldn't picture it being over. There was just pain, pure overwhelming pain. I was tearing in half. I was going to explode. I couldn't take it. Tears streamed unrestrained and barely noticed down my cheeks, and I flung my head back in desperation, unable to take any more of this nightmare. But then, as quickly as it had started, it ended again. I looked up amazed to find myself in my own home, alive and well, the dizzying spasms over, though I knew my moment of rest would not last for long.
I moved into the living room, grasping the mantelpiece for support, groaning as I felt another one ripple through me. I felt as though I was walking through fire, my body burning. Other times it was like being pulled in two different directions, tearing through the centre. Despite my discomfort, every single one of the epic surges made me happy, knowing it was bringing me closer to meeting my child. I felt more human, more alive than I had ever known.
The next contraction sent me falling to my hands and knees. Something was happening. I could feel my body pushing. It was the most intense feeling I had ever experienced, it was as if I was turning inside out, ripping in two. I was losing all semblance of control now, my body had overruled my mind, and there was nothing but sensation, instinct, surrender. Roaring screams came unbidden from my lungs, I had no way of stopping the sounds, any more than I could stop the powerful pressure of my baby pushing his way into the world. I knew this was the point where I was at my most vulnerable. I needed to trust that this was what was supposed to happen, but it was just so strong. It frightened me. Suddenly I realised the importance of this moment, the million things that could go wrong. I was overwhelmed. It wasn't what I thought it would be, it was so much more. The power I had felt earlier was replaced by fear, uncertainty and I wished that I wasn't alone.
But then, with a scream that shook the foundations of the house, I could feel the head crowning, pushing unstoppably through me. I looked between my legs and saw a round little head hanging there. It was surreal and beautiful and terrifying all at once. I panted, catching my breath, feeling utterly shell shocked at what had just happened. With my hands and knees on the rug in the living room, I realised with absolute clarity that with the next contraction, my life would be changed forever. I was about to become someone else. The thought gave me the strength to continue. I would do this. I had no choice but to do this. I ran my index finger over the base of his neck, checking the cord wasn't wrapped around him. It wasn't. I moved into a squat, grabbing a cushion from the sofa and placing it between my legs. Then my body took over once again, and in one fierce, bellowing push, he slid from my body, landing in a tangle of limbs on the white cushion, staining it forever with his beautiful arrival.
For a few seconds nothing happened. I just stared at him. He was pink and wrinkled, his hair fluffy and auburn, just like my sisters'. He blinked. He opened his mouth. And then he let out a startling cry, shocking me into action. Sinking down onto the floor, I scooped the wriggling bundle up into my arms, bringing him to my naked chest. He was so small, so soft. I could feel his heart beating beneath my palm. He was absolutely real, and he was perfect. He stopped crying, his body curving to fit mine, his tiny fingers grasping onto my breast, though he didn't suckle. He breathed in deeply, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, and I couldn't help but giggle at the absurdity of it. As I stared at my son, my own child, my beautiful baby, one thought swam through my mind over and over again.
I am a mother. I am a mother. I am a mother.
Five minutes later I still hadn't moved. The cord dangled from between my legs, snaking it's way up my abdomen and finishing at the baby's navel. I didn't want to move yet. I couldn't. I felt dizzy and tired and weak. I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and was surprised to see it read five thirty. Had I really been in labour so long? Lucas would be back from work at any minute, I should do something to clean up, make us look less shocking, I thought, looking at the stained cushion, the streaks of dried blood running down my thighs, across my arms. But, as I heard the key in the lock, I realised it was too late. It didn't really matter anyway. I remained completely still as the front door opened and closed again.
“Roxy, I'm home,” came Lucas's rumbling voice. “And I brought muffins!” He stepped into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks as he saw me. One hand went to the door frame as if to steady himself. He dropped the bag he was carrying onto the carpet. It landed with a soft thud.
“Surprise,” I whispered. “He's here.”
Lucas shook his head, his eyes wide. “You didn't call.”
“No.” I felt queasy, my hands shaky, my body shuddering, but I managed a smile. “I'm glad you're here now. Come and meet your son.”
Lucas stepped forward tentatively. He looked beyond shocked. Then he seemed to come to his senses. He grabbed the thick crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa, and crouched down, wrapping it snugly around me and the baby. “You're shaking.”
“It's been a strenuous afternoon.”
“You should have called.” He leaned in, running his finger over the baby's head. “Roxy, he's perfect.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Is he okay? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I think so.” A pain rippled through my abdomen and my face creased.
“What is it? What's wrong?”
“Just... just the placenta. Get a bowl.”
He stared at me for a second, then rushed into the kitchen. He was back a moment later with a big mixing bowl in his hands. “What should I do?” he asked, his eyes glittering with fear. I took the bowl in one hand, careful not to disturb the baby sleeping in my arms.
“Nothing, you don't need to do anything.” I squatted over the bowl and a moment later the placenta dropped into it. Lucas's eyes were wide.
“Is that... is it over?”
“I think so.”
“What now?”
I grinned up at him. “Now, you help me to bed.”
Thirty minutes later after Lucas had helped me wash and dress in clean pyjamas, I was sipping a hot cup of tea and eating my way through an enormous chocolate muffin. Lucas sat on the edge of the bed, holding our son, grinning from ear to ear. I'd stopped shaking, and now felt a sense of absolute bliss and contentment. “So what are we going to call him?” Lucas murmured, running his fingers over the silky smooth skin of the baby's rosy cheek.
“Oscar. I think he's an Oscar,” I replied, stifling a yawn.