Just breathe, please.
I had a pretty difficult delivery last week. It was a first-time mom, a long labor, a lot of pushing. Baby looked fine on the monitor throughout. Labor had turned a sweet, mild-mannered young lady into a screaming banshee. I thought her head might actually start spinning. She did eventually successfully deliver, but the baby did not immediately pink up and, you know, breathe. The nurses started resuscitation with ventilations and compressions. The heart rate was low, respiratory effort was poor. As I took the stethoscope from one of the nurses to count out the heartbeats, I had the momentary panicky thought that this baby might die. This baby can't die. Baby, don't you dare die. After the longest 7 minutes of my life, the baby's first 7 minutes of life, baby was breathing on its own, looking around, with a good strong heartbeat. Both mom and baby turned out fine. All's well that ends well, as they say, but geeze! The sheer terror of those interminable minutes waiting for a newborn to recover from the shock of birth and take over breathing, living, is horrifying. The what-ifs are too terrible to contemplate. But they are essential to contemplate. Part of the job is being prepared for the worst case. But, God, I hate the worst case.