Andrew has always amazed me. He amazed me with the way his mind worked. The way he could look at me without saying anything and make me feel like the most important person in the world. He amazed me with how he could always be so positive even when life was falling apart around him. And how he could make a light shine in the darkest recesses of my mind when I thought that I’d never see another light there again.
Sure, he had his bad days, his “moments of weakness,” but by far I’ve never known anyone else like him. And I know I never will.
Maybe I really am a weak person at heart. Maybe if it wasn’t for Andrew, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve become of me if I never met him, if he wasn’t there to save me from that dangerous, reckless bus ride I decided to take on my own. I wonder what would’ve happened to me if he didn’t care about me enough to help me through my moment of weakness. I hate to think of myself this way, but sometimes you just have to face the reality of what is, of how things are and how they might’ve been based on your actions. I know in my heart that if it wasn’t for Andrew, I might not be here today at all.
These last several months have been very hard for us, but at the same time, they’ve been full of life and excitement and love and hope.
Life is a mysterious, often unfair, thing. But I think I’ve learned in my time with Andrew that it can also be a wonderful thing, and that usually when something happens that seems unfair, it’s just Life’s way of making room for better things to come. I like to think that. It gives me strength when I need it most.
And right now I need it.
I try to look up at the clock high on the sterile-white wall of the room, but I can barely make out the little black hands through the blur in my eyes. I want to know how long I’ve been here. I’m exhausted and weak, mentally and physically and can’t take it anymore. I swallow down a lump in my throat and my mouth feels as dry as sandpaper. I reach up to wipe a tear from my eye. But only one. I haven’t really cried much at all. Because the pain had been so unbearable before that it practically dried up all of my tears.
I can’t do this. I feel like at any moment I want to just give up. I want to tell everyone in the room to go away, to just leave me alone, and stop looking at me as if my soul needs mending. It does! It f**king does! But no one here can do it.
Mostly I’m just numb. I can’t feel anything anymore. But the hospital walls are starting to close in around me, making me somewhat claustrophobic. But as far as pain and heartache, I can’t feel anything. I wonder if I’ll be numb forever.
“You have to try to push,” Andrew says next to me, holding onto my hand.
I whip my head to the side to see him and argue, “But I can’t feel my waist! How can I push if I can’t feel myself pushing!” The only pushing I think I’ve managed to do were those words through my gritted teeth.
He smiles down at me and kisses my sweating forehead.
“You can do it,” Dr. Ball says from in between my legs.
I close my eyes tight, grip Andrew’s hand, and push. I think. I open my eyes and allow myself to breathe.
“Did I push? Is it working?”
God, I hope I don’t fart! Oh my God, that would be so f**king embarrassing!
“You’re doing great, baby.”
Andrew looks at the doctor now, waiting.
“A few more times and that should do it,” the doctor says.
Not liking her words, I let out a frustrated breath through my lips and throw my head back against the pillow harshly.
“Try again, baby,” Andrew says softly, never losing his cool, even though every time I notice him look at the doctor I sense a hidden level of worry in his face.
I raise my back from the pillow again and try to push, but like usual I can’t really tell if I’m actually pushing or I just think I am. Andrew adjusts one arm behind my back to help me to stay upright, and I bear down and push again, shutting my eyes so tight that I feel like they’re being shoved into the back of my skull. My teeth are gritted and bared. Sweat beads off my forehead.
I yell out something inaudible as I stop pushing and am able to breathe again.
And I feel something. Whoa… it’s not pain—the epidural cured me of that—but the pressure of the baby I definitely feel. If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone just stuck something unnaturally large into my vagina. My eyes get bigger and bigger.
“The baby’s head is out,” I hear the doctor say and then I hear a gross sucking sound as she cleans the baby’s throat out with a suction bulb.
Andrew wants to look; I see his neck stretch out like a turtle, trying to get a better view, but he doesn’t want to leave my side.
“Just couple more, Camryn,” the doctor says.
I push again, putting even more effort into it now that I know it’s actually working.
She pulls the baby’s shoulders out.
I push one more time and our baby is born.
“You did great,” the doctor says while clearing the baby’s throat some more.
Andrew kisses my cheek and my forehead, and he wipes my sweat-soaked hair away from my face and the sides of my neck. A few seconds later, the baby’s cries fill the room with smiles and excitement. I burst into tears, sobbing so hard that my entire body trembles uncontrollably with emotion.
And then the doctor announces, “It’s a girl.”
Andrew and I can hardly take our eyes off of her until he’s asked to cut the cord. He leaves my side, but smiles proudly as he makes his way over and does the honors. He can’t seem to decide who he wants to look at more, me or our daughter. I smile and lay my head back down against the pillow, utterly exhausted. I can finally make out the clock on the wall. It tells me I’ve been in labor for more than sixteen hours.