Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [88]
But now it was April 10th, the Easter Vigil and three days after Mary’s due date. She was showing the classic watermelon configuration and the baby’s head had locked in position, giving Mary a pronounced duck walk. The weather was heavenly, and in the spurt of energy it inspired, Mary worked all day inside and out. In the garden she had sat cross-legged, transplanting tomatoes. For once she overdid it slightly. Her back began to ache badly, so as the sun set, I helped her inside and gave her a massage.
Then she got a strong cramp and bent forward as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She looked up at me in disbelief. Could this be labor? The feeling was nothing like the Braxton-Hicks contractions. She described it as a wave of clenching pain that rolled up and over her midsection uncontrollably, draining her of all strength, all hope that she could possibly endure more of it. She had gone pale. She had already given up and we hadn’t even started.
Before I could digest what was going on, eight minutes later it happened again, only more sharply. We were in the living room, so when the agonizing spasm passed, I helped Mary get up and undress for bed. The book said that if contractions came at night, the woman should get as much rest as possible—but the advice proved useless. The contractions were so strong, that once she lay down, Mary couldn’t relax, let alone sleep.
We got out of bed and went into the living room again. When Mary sat down another cramp hit, so sharp she cried out in pain. She looked at me dazedly and said in a too-small voice, “If this is what it’s like, I don’t see how I can possibly make it.” The tone of her voice portended disaster.
My mind began to dissociate. The room was falling into pieces. At some vague level I knew that if there was any hope, the source was me. I tried to get a hold of my wits: pregnancy, birth, what did these concepts mean? Nothing but a blank? Then I remembered: Lamaze! This was something we had trained for! I was to be the labor coach. Of course. We could begin the breathing exercises. They would help ease the pain. I had been thrown at first because we had skipped the stage with the movies and the lollipops.
As Mary sat in her chair, I gave her the cue as the next contraction started. But she didn’t seem to recall how to do it. The pain was so overwhelming, it knocked her memory right out. Gently I reminded her of how it went: “Ready: Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, Whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo…” When the contraction was over, we rehearsed it a couple of times: a succession of shallow breaths, speeding up as the contraction swelled, slowing down as it abated. On the next contraction, we counterbalanced it with Lamaze breathing, and Mary said between breaths, “That’s a little better.”
The relief was immeasurable. Labor, which just a little bit earlier had seemed utterly unmanageable, had suddenly become manageable. I suggested we go back to bed. The minute I tried to get her up from the chair, though, Mary crumpled in another wave of crippling pain. The movement had triggered it. When I attempted to lift and carry her, this made it even worse. She was able to close the distance only by darting the few steps on her own before another full-blown contraction began.
It was now about one a.m., two hours since the onset of labor. I hadn’t attempted to time the contractions yet, so I now looked at my watch. Six minutes elapsed before the next one came on. I needed to get the midwife. Just to make sure, I timed the next interval. Odd. Now Mary entered her contraction after only four minutes. Again I looked at my watch. The next one came in ninety seconds. Irrationally, I continued timing the contractions.