All the Tiny Details

Bright white walls, not a spec of dirt on them.

The gray sky outside the window, full of thick dark clouds.

A quiet so intense that you could hear a pin drop.

Minor details that are easily overlooked. I memorize every single one of them. Jane Weideman tells us that giving birth should be a woman's greatest achievement, not her greatest fear.

But I am terrified.

With bands wrapped around my swollen stomach and needles in my arms, I am confined to a small bed with metal railings threatening to dig into my sides. The monitor to my left picks up every contraction with the rise and fall of a thin pink line. The humps are small now, but I know they will get more significant, more intense, more painful. My legs are stiff, and my back has a deep ache that can't be settled by the minor adjustments I'm restricted to.

"Are you doing okay?" My husband breaks the silence from beside me. He knows I'm not, but I smile and nod anyway. This pain is normal; it's supposed to be felt. A womanly instinct is pulling at the threads of my soul, whispering that I can take it despite what my brain is screaming at me. He gives my hand an encouraging squeeze, the pressure tethering me back to reality. Seconds, minutes, and hours pass like this. My face contorts in the wake of pain, my husband questions my state, and a squeeze of reassurance that I'm not alone. As the humps on the monitor rise and rise, I try to keep the breathing techniques in the front of my mind. In through the nose, out through the mouth, and pause- repeat.

Nurses flow in and out of the small room, adjusting sensors, increasing medications, and offering me ice chips, which I politely decline each time. The baby's movement has drastically decreased now as she continues to lower, but her heart is still beating strongly. My husband eyes the monitor showing both mine and the baby's vitals like his life depends on it- because it does. I look at his face, studying the tired weight in his eyes and the stress pulling his mouth in a tight line.

Memorize every detail. I remind my brain. Forget nothing.

But as my eyes roll in the back of my skull, I forget the breathing technique, forget the tether to reality, and forget the minor details as another contraction sends waves of agony through me. I barely hear my husband curse under his breath as my nails dig into his palms.

"You're doing so good," he whispers into my hair, dampened with sweat. I do not feel like I am doing good. I think the opposite, like no matter how hard I try, the pain is all-consuming, taking complete control when it's here. When it leaves, I have only thirty seconds to collect my bearings before it scrambles my mind once again.

"I don't think I can do this." I wheeze out as another contraction tightens my stomach with grievous pain. A pleading moan follows my cowardly statement, but I don't take it back.

My husband's reassuring presence is a distant comfort as he squeezes my cold, clammy hand. Despite his words of encouragement, it feels like he is light-years away from me. Each contraction comes closer and closer together, leaving me with little time to catch my breath in between.

As I ride the waves of pain, I desperately try to distract my mind elsewhere. It's ironic how much time and preparation went into this single moment, only for me to feel completely lost in its midst.    

What happens next is a blur.

A rush of doctors and nurses come barreling in.

My husband's hand on the back of my neck holding my head up.

The word 'push' is tossed around the room, not belonging to a single mouth.

I don't remember pushing. I don't remember screaming as much as my husband says I did. But what I do remember are the little details lost to everyone else in the big moment. They are so insignificant that if I spoke them aloud, people would think I was strange for noticing them.

A nurse's pen hanging out of the pocket on her scrubs with the words 'ready to pop' on it.

The broken minute hand of my husband's watch forever stuck, pointing to the four.

A month trapped inside the light on the ceiling above me.

Then, it is quiet. As if a blanket covered the world, there isn't a single sound to be heard. It stays this way for a long time, too long if you ask me. Panic fills my throat, but I can't speak. I watch mouths move from around me while everything else turns into a smear of white coats and blue gloves.

Then, like a sudden breakthrough, I hear a cry. It is soft, stuttering in and out, with new life filling the tiny lungs that produced it. I compare it to music—a sound that moves through you, settling so deep in your bones that you know you will never forget it for as long as you live.

The rest happens in slow motion, and once again, I pick up tiny details that are etched inside my brain like a tattoo.

The pressure of another heartbeat placed on top of mine.

Threadlike scratches left across my chest from the smallest of fingernails. And three wet spots on my shoulder left from the tears rolling down my husband's cheeks.

And when the congratulations stop, and everyone leaves our room, I still can't peel my eyes off the tiny face bundled in my arms. I take in as many details as I can.

I count her eyelashes.

I memorize the slope of her nose.

I trace the curve of her cheek with my finger.

I am drowning in all of the little details surrounding us, and at this moment, with my husband at my side, I wish we could stay here forever.