It was Friday, the busiest day of the week. It was also shift change - a very inconvenient time for a delivery. But these things are not scheduled. Earlier that morning, a woman came to the front desk asking if she needed to make an appointment to be seen, though she was clearly in labor. Oh no dear, not here. Of course you will be seen. Of course you may have as many visitors as you like, and yes, a private room. Of course we will do all within our capabilities to make this experience absolutely wonderful...
But my particular patient was about to experience this wonder with no other witnesses, no camera holders or phone texters, no worriers or wishful thinkers, no one to encourage, cry with or sympathize. She was all alone. Just moved into town. Her elderly neighbor gave her a ride to the hospital. The father of this baby didn't even know, nor would he care, she explained. He lived in a different state. Today was her chance to start over, to start new.
Being the busy day that it was, and being that her second stage of labor (pushing) had progressed beautifully, I looked out of her room and saw no one at the desk. No nurses, no doctors, no techs. Not even our unit secretary. And the baby was nearly crowning. Where is my support? Huh, this is how it feels.
Normally, a delivery is a team event. I, the nurse, coordinate the team's roles. I coach. I delegate. I determine when other players are needed. I make the calls. And I communicate to the parent(s) what is going to happen and what is expected of them. But I don't ever expect to do a delivery by myself, ever.
So I hurried to the phone directory and paged the doctor to come. Then I poked my head back in her room and told her I'd be right back. I ran to the supply room and gathered all I could think of off the top of my head for the delivery table: the pack of instruments, gowns, gloves, suture, syringe and local anesthetic. Wait, almost forgot baby blankets for the warmer. And a hat.
I came back to the desk with my arms full just as the phone rang. It was the doctor. He was on his way. Now back to the bedside. Her epidural was working great, but she felt lots of pressure and wanted to keep pushing. I checked her and gathered that we had about 10 minutes. "Go ahead and bare down," I told her. And I started setting up the room. Running through all the steps in my head (the things I'm used to telling my team to do); questioning if I'm missing anything... Then the doctor arrives.
"It's just you and me," I told him. "Okay," he says, "Let's do this." I finished prepping and came back to her side, remembering what this day meant for her, what this moment brings. She was so stoic, so focused, so quiet. But I could feel the angst in her breath, see the pain in her eyes. I let go of my "duties" and hung on her every move. I whispered words of encouragement, lightly challenged her, and watching her overcome, I gave praise. You can do this. This is worth it. You are almost there.
The three of us cried out as her baby came, celebrating her work, her labor, her new beginning. She glowed with joy holding her little one in her arms, tears streaming. "Love is born," she said.
Life calls for witnesses. It is how we know we are not alone. Now she will be the witness for her daughter and her daughter for her. Now she will have love given fully as only a baby can give - in true dependence and sweet grace. Grace for a new mother's questions, fears, and insecurities. A baby knows not the skills of parenting, only the presence of love. Love only a mother can give.
