Of Labor and Love
While helping a client through a precipitous labor, a doula encounters her high school ex-boyfriend.
This story was written in response to a prompt for the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest, in which I was tasked with writing a romantic comedy. For more information about the contest and the prompts, read on to the end of the story!
Note to readers: This story centers around a birth. Birth is a beautiful, miraculous thing, but it can also be gross. You have been warned.
“I’m gonna puke.” Nancy leaned against a pillar outside the emergency room.
“I’ll get a wheelchair.” I turned to rush inside.
“Don’t leave me!” Nancy shrieked. Still clinging to the pillar, she held her head in her hands and let out a guttural groan. “I am not in labor. I will not be in labor until Steve gets here. I won’t do it.”
“Nancy,” I said, my voice as low and soothing as I could make it while speaking over the sudden wail of an ambulance and the crunch of car tires on the asphalt of the hospital parking lot. “I don’t think baby’s gonna wait that long. Steve’s plane hasn’t even left yet.”
I sighed, so quietly the car tires and the noisy ambulance drowned the sound, and I swallowed the tightness in my throat. It always hit me by surprise, this little pain in my chest, the longing to have someone I loved so much that I would refuse to be in labor just because I didn’t want to do it without him.
“Another contraction’s coming.” Nancy braced her arms against the pillar. “Can you do the hip squeeze thing again?”
I moved behind her and pressed my hands against her hip bones to provide counterpressure. Nancy gasped in pain as the contraction neared its peak.
“Deep breaths,” I said, keeping my voice slow. “Keep breathing.”
Footsteps came up behind me.
The contraction tapered off, and Nancy lifted her face, suddenly pale. Then she doubled over and vomited on the sidewalk, right onto a pair of shoes.
My eyes flew up from the spattered shoes to the stunned face of a dark-haired man in a denim jacket.
He stared at me. I stared at him. And Nancy spat out the rest of her puke.
“She’s in labor,” I said.
He nodded.
I bit my lip. “I’m so sorry about your shoes.”
“It’s, um, what they’re for, anyway,” he said as he attempted a shrug.
What they’re for? What are they, your pub crawl shoes? Your drunken-concert-going shoes?
Nancy’s head shot up, her eyes frantic. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, just hold on –” I started.
“I can’t do another contraction,” Nancy whimpered. “It’s coming, it’s coming.”
I squeezed her hips again. When I glanced up, the denim-jacket-man was gone, with only the shoe-shaped indentations in Nancy’s vomit to show he had ever been there. “Just breathe. In for four seconds, out for seven. You got this.”
At a sudden squeak from the ER entrance, I turned around.
The denim-jacket-man appeared, pushing a wheelchair. “Thought this might help.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I tried to help Nancy lower herself into the wheelchair, but she flopped down into the seat and pointed at the door.
“Bathroom! Right now!”
I pushed the wheelchair as fast as I could through the sliding doors. Behind me came the voice of denim-jacket-man. “Better hurry! Sounds like baby could be here any minute.”
“You have the warm compresses, right?” In the triage bed, Nancy’s eyes were wide, her face flushed.
“I’ll get some hot water,” I said. “I’m sure the nurse will be here any second.”
Where on earth was the nurse? Nancy had been waiting in the triage room for almost fifteen minutes without a single person coming to check her.
I grabbed an empty ice bucket and slipped out the door.
I’d never experienced childbirth myself. But, should the day ever come that I was in labor with a baby of my own, I was prepared. I knew the birth center, the midwife, and which of my doula colleagues I wanted to be there with me.
The only missing piece was the father. He was a shadowy, indistinct figure holding my hand or stroking my hair in the background of my imaginings. Usually he bore a resemblance to the male lead of whatever show I was watching. Currently he looked a bit like Tom Hiddleston in The Night Manager, though my fictitious husband eschewed bringing down arms dealers for doting on myself and our soon-to-be-born child.
But someday, someday, I would be the woman breathing through contractions, bringing a new, screaming, tiny person into the world. That is, if my eggs didn’t all dry up and die inside my ovaries before I found a man who showered regularly and had good values, a decent job, and a sense of humor.
I rounded the corner near the coffee machines, where a tall male nurse was restocking the applesauce and Jell-o in the fridge.
“Excuse me,” I said, sliding past him to reach the hot water lever on the coffee maker.
He stepped out of my way. “Hello again.”
I stared for an awkward moment, and then recognition dinged like bell inside my head. It was denim-jacket-man, sans denim jacket, his street clothes now swapped for pale green scrubs.
“You’re a nurse!” That’s what he meant! His work shoes must get nasty stuff on them all the time.
I pulled the lever, and hot water flowed into the empty ice bucket.
He chuckled. “I wasn’t supposed to work tonight. But they’re short-staffed, and one of the nurses had to go home sick. So they called me in. I’m guessing the baby hasn’t come yet?”
“No. And no one has been into the triage room yet.”
“Really?” He frowned. “If the charge nurse doesn’t come in soon, I can see what the holdup is.”
Heat flashed across my palm, and I jerked backward. Steaming water sloshed over the sides of the already overflowing bucket and splattered onto the floor.
“Careful, that stuff’s hot.” Denim-jacket-man pulled a handful of paper towels from a dispenser.
A wail, in a voice that could only be Nancy’s, erupted from down the hall.
I dumped some of the hot water into the sink. “I’m so sorry,” I said, hovering between cleaning up my mess and darting back down the hall.
Denim-jacket-man waved me off as he wiped up the floor with paper towels. “I got this. You go.”
As fast as I could without spilling more water, I ran to the triage room.
“Burning! It’s burning!” Nancy shrieked, her eyes round and glassy as a wild horse.
I stabbed the nurse call button. What on earth was taking them so long?
There was a sharp rap on the door, and a harried, droopy-eyed nurse appeared.
“You need to page the doctor,” I said.
“I’m Joyce. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” The nurse rubbed sanitizer on her hands, then squinted at me. “Who’re you?”
“Clare. The doula. You need to page the doctor now.”
Joyce tugged on her gloves and ambled toward the hospital bed. “He’s on his way. Okay now, mama. Just relax, and –”
The room went silent, and Joyce pulled her hand back. “Okay. Well, um. Take some deep breaths. Breathe like you’re trying to keep a feather in the air. And don’t push. The doctor will be here soon.”
“Don’t push?” Nancy screamed. “You try not pushing when there’s a bowling ball coming out your –”
But the nurse was already scurrying into the hallway. As the door swung shut, her voice blared from the hallway, shouting for the on-call physician.
Nancy screeched and snatched my hand. “It’s burning!”
“It means you’re almost done, I promise,” I said. “You’re so close.”
My fingers cracked, the bones of my hand scraping against each other as Nancy squeezed, and I smothered a whimper, gripping the side of the bed with my free hand.
A chirpy knock on the door, and a figure brushed into the room, scrubbing his hands. No surgical gown, no hair net, no gloves. Just a white lab coat, a wide, blinding grin, and a face I recognized. “Dr. Blake. I’m the on-call physician tonight.”
All the heat in my body rushed to my cheeks.
When you run into your high school ex-boyfriend, that’s the day you want your hair and makeup to be perfect, your tailored clothes broadcasting how fit, successful, and happy you are. This – messy hair, leggings, and rumpled t-shirt – was not the way I had pictured myself looking if I ever saw Dan again.
“I hear we’re having a baby today!” Dr. Blake clapped his hands together and looked down. “Oh. Right now, actually. Where’s the nurse? Can you hit the call button?” Snatching gloves from a box on the counter, he pointed in my general direction, then stopped. “Clare?”
I raised my hand in a weak hello.
“Wow!” he said. “What are you up to these days?”
I shot a pointed glance at Nancy. “Doula.”
“No way!” He pointed at himself. “Obstetrician.”
“So I gathered.”
Suddenly Nancy seemed to flex every muscle in her body, roaring like a battle-bound Viking warrior woman.
Nurse Joyce, disgruntled and red-faced, rushed back into the room. “I didn’t see you coming in, doctor. I was trying to page you.”
A gaggle of nurses hurried after her, among them denim-jacket-man in his pale green scrubs. A sudden, confusing anxiety prickled over my skin.
From between Nancy’s legs, Dan glanced up at me. “So, Clare, it’s been a while! You married now, have kids?”
“Um, no. To both.”
Was it just me, or did denim-jacket-man glance this way? Was he laughing? Or judging?
Nancy roared again and rolled onto her hands and knees.
“No no,” Dan said. “On your back, please.”
“She’d like to push on her hands and knees,” I said. “It’s in her birth plan.”
Dan let out a small huff. “All right. That’s fine, I guess. You’re looking great, Clare. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Nancy also asked for delayed cord clamping,”
“We usually delay cord clamping by about thirty seconds. You’re doing great,” he said to Nancy, with the cheery nonchalance that appeared to be his typical bedside manner.
“No, she wants to delay it until the cord stops pulsing.”
Dan frowned. “Okay. We’ll see. Here we go, just one more push.”
Nancy gave a ragged scream, and with one final squelch and a suddenness that somehow, no matter how many births I witnessed, always took me by surprise, a new, tiny person was in the room.
“We need suctioning,” Dan said, as calmly as though he were talking about adding paprika to a soup.
Nurse Joyce whisked the slippery baby away, handing it to denim-jacket-man.
“You did it,” I whispered, my hand on Nancy’s back. “You did so great. Baby’s here.”
Breathing hard, Nancy grabbed my hand, the wildness in her eyes not quite gone. “Is baby okay?”
“Baby’s fine. But I’ll go check. I’m sure they’ll bring baby over any second now.” I dodged between the nurses filling the room and made my way to the warming bed.
“I know you don’t like it,” denim-jacket-man said as he cleared out the baby’s mouth with a suctioning bulb. He didn’t speak with the high-pitched baby-voice I so often heard. Instead, had I not known that he was talking to a seconds-old infant, I would have thought he was speaking to a justifiably angry adult. “I’m being a big, old bully with this thing. I’m almost done, I promise.”
“Boy or girl?” Nancy yelled from across the room.
“Girl!” I called back.
Nancy squealed in delight.
“How’s she doing?” I said, more quietly.
“She’ll be fine. Just swallowed some fluid.” Denim-jacket-man turned to the baby. “I’d sure like to hear you yell, though, young lady.”
I smiled, at the man and at the baby, and slipped my finger into the baby’s miniscule fist. Her hand closed around it. Fetal reflex or not, nothing could mar the sweetness of that little squeeze.
“You’re almost done, baby girl,” I whispered. “You’ll get to go to your mama soon.”
Denim-jacket-man stuck his finger in the baby’s other fist and tugged. “That’s quite a grip you’ve got.”
The tiny girl let out an indignant scream.
“There we go!” He slipped a diaper on her, wrapped her in a warm blanket, and scooped her up. “Let’s go see your mama. You’ll like her a lot better than you like me.”
I followed and stood by Nancy’s head as he laid the baby on her chest.
“You did awesome,” he said to Nancy. “Your baby is exceptionally cute. And I see a lot of babies.”
Then he retreated, fading into the background.
After a few whispered affirmations, I stepped back, leaving Nancy to marvel. This was the best part of my job. The overflowing moments of the baby’s first breaths on this side of the womb, when the new mama could see nothing else but the little human in front of her.
Dan poked his head up from between the stirrups. “So, Clare, you wanna grab a coffee once we’re done here?” He turned back to Nancy. “I’m going to deliver your placenta now.”
I floundered, mouth agape.
Denim-jacket-man was bustling about the room, and I couldn’t read the expression on his face.
But why was I trying to? Why was I looking at all?
“I-it’s almost midnight,” I said.
“They have decaf.” He laughed and shrugged. “Middle of the workday for me.”
My brain stuttered over a response.
If I had I run into Dan in the supermarket or while out for a walk, I had no doubt that I would have blushed and said yes. Yes to the coffee, yes to a second chance. Yes to a story of exes reunited, rekindling their old love.
But this didn’t feel like a love story.
Not my love story.
“Dan,” I started. Denim-jacket-man stood by the warming bed, folding blankets. Multiple blankets. He seemed very interested in the many blankets that needed to be folded. “I’m going to head home once Nancy and baby are settled. But thank you.”
“Nancy? Oh, yes, the new mom. Congrats, by the way.” He patted Nancy’s knee. “And, Clare, here’s this for when you change your mind.”
He dug beneath his blue gown and pulled a pad of Post-it notes from his scrubs pocket. He scribbled on one of them and handed it to me.
“See you soon,” he said with a wink. On his way out the door, he tugged off his latex gloves and slam dunked them into the trash can.
I looked down at the orange Post-it note.
His phone number.
Shaking my head, I touched Nancy’s arm. “The hospital kitchen won’t open until morning, but I brought a whole bag full of snacks for you.”
As I fetched the bag of food, I crumpled the orange sticky note and tossed it into the trash can next to Dr. Dan Blake’s blue latex gloves.
The door of the labor and delivery wing slid shut behind me. I leaned against the wall and pushed the down button on the elevator.
Another happy mom, another healthy baby. The best kind of workday, in spite of Dan’s head popping up to ask me out while he was still actively delivering the placenta. That was a new one.
The door whooshed open again.
I glanced over my shoulder, then stumbled as I rushed to straighten up.
Denim-jacket-man dodged out the door and up to the elevators. “Oh. Glad I caught you. Thought you might be gone already.” He smiled, holding out his hand. “I’m Will, by the way. I’m sure this isn’t unusual for you at all, having this happen twice in the same hour,” he said, a slight chuckle in his voice. “But would you like to get dinner sometime? Not right now. In the evening. Like normal people.”
My tired laugh came out like a strangled giggle, and my face grew hot. Was I sweating?
A giggle? Really? Come on, Clare, you’re a grown woman.
I looked more closely at him. Dark hair, shoes that probably still smelled like vomit. A smile, crooked and toothy and so genuine it almost hurt to look at him.
And, just for a moment, I saw it. One pivotal moment, like a clothespin holding together the ragged story of my life.
The elevator dinged and slid open.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’d love to.”
Thank you so much for reading!
When I saw that my assigned genre for the first round of this year’s NYC Midnight Short Story Contest was Romantic Comedy, I was a bit terrified. The only genres I fear more are Political Satire and outright Comedy, which are notoriously difficult.
I love well-crafted romantic comedies, the ones with good character development and a plot that’s interesting and complex enough that, if executed differently, it could be a drama. When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle1, While You Were Sleeping, Roman Holiday, It Happened One Night, Charade2, Bringing Up Baby - there are so many stellar examples. At the same time, I’ve read and watched too many rom-coms that came off as cringe-worthy or sappy rather than heartwarming and endearing, and I didn’t want to subject myself or anyone else to that.
The other elements I had to include in the story were “an ex-boyfriend” and “a bedside manner.” As a mom of three and occasional doula, you can see where my imagination went with that. For the record, the vast majority of my experiences with hospital staff have been absolutely lovely, and I have never witnessed a doctor flirting with anyone while delivering a placenta.
I hope you enjoyed this rom-com departure from my more mystery-tinged, darker fiction! If you enjoyed this mini romantic comedy, here are some other short love stories that might be up your alley:
Basically, anything that’s a Nora Ephron-Meg Ryan team-up…
Thanks, E.B. Howard, for reminding me of this gem!
OKAY BRIDGET THIS WAS AMAZING? WHEN DO WE GET THEIR STORY??
Yay! I was rooting for denim jacket guy. Nicely done, Bridget.