In Beth & Spike's Room
As soon as she hears the knock on the door, she knows without looking exactly who it is and what it's about. Maybe it's the quality of the knock, or maybe it's the soft urgency behind it, but by the time she hears it the second time followed by Spike's voice calling her name, she knows. In a flash her boots are on and the first aid kit she's been carrying in her backpack is in hand, along with her box of non-latex gloves and anything and everything else she's had set aside just for this occasion. When she opens the door, she thrusts the three pillows from her bed into Spike's hands: a woman in labor can never have too many of those. "How far apart?"
When he tells her they're just shy of three minutes apart and last on average almost a minute and it's been that way for about an hour and a half and Beth's starting to get just a little bit bitchy, she knows it's time. "That all sounds about right," she tells him, even though her voice sounds kind of hollow and far away. "Lead the way, dad to be."
If there's any justice in this world -- this fucking universe -- this will be a goddamn smooth delivery. She's not an OB; she's just an out-of-practice paramedic. Still, she's done this before and she's a lot fucking better than having no one at all and she's so goddamn glad Beth isn't all alone in her church in Cooksfield trying to do this by herself. Sure, generations of women did just that before the advent of hospitals and epidurals and fetal monitor belts and Pitocin and all that crap, but if women want to do it alone in their day and age, they do it by choice, not necessity. At least they used to before the plague.
Beth's kid is going to be lucky. She won't be born to the plague world. As she follows Spike down the hall, she wonders idly if baby Vladimir is actually the last kid born on their Earth. Unless lots of people in other countries have been experimenting with sperm banks, he actually might be. It's kind of overwhelming. There used to be 4.2 babies born on Earth every second. That's 250 babies born every minute and 15,008 babies born every hour. Extrapolate and do the math -- not her strongest subject in school, ever, and it's 360,192 new lives on Earth every goddamn day... or at least it used to be. She doesn't know what's going on in other countries since the plague, but goddamn it, that's the way it used to be. And now there's... maybe a handful a year. It's so much more than tragic.
And now isn't the time to think about that, either: it's time to get professional, to do her thing. When she gets to their room Beth's curled up on the bed, wearing just a t-shirt and underpants, clutching her abdomen. Hero flashes her a small grin. "Now that looks like labor, Santa Madre. I got the lowdown from your guy here, who..." Glancing over at Spike, she motions for the pillows; she sets those at the head of the bed. "...who's going to take one of those wash cloths and get it nice and wet with cold water. Then he's going to put it on your forehead and get his ass down to the bar for a pitcher of ice chips. And when he gets back, he's going to feed you ice chips whenever you want, but no more drinking water. It'll make you barf and I don't want to have to clean up more than I'm already going to." With a sharp nod of her head, she sends Spike flying, kind of, and once the washcloth is in place and he's left for the ice chips, Hero rests her hands on Beth's shoulders.
"Okay. Stand with me; I'm going to get that bed ready for you." There's no taking no for an answer and Beth isn't in much of a position to argue. Quickly, efficiently, she strips the comforter off the bed, layers it with towels and spare blankets and more towels, then covers all that with one of the spare bottom sheets. Towels and towels and towels go right under where her butt's gonna sit; after all, her water's going to break sooner or later and they'll need that many of them to catch the fluid, be able to strip it away from under her easily. The big body pillow becomes a headboard; the other six pillows get propped around it so mamacita can half-lie, half-sit comfortably. Hero manages to get that underwear off and cover her from the belly down with yet another spare sheet. After all, Beth's allowed to retain as much modesty as possible. She probably won't give a shit about it when those contractions start coming fast and hard, but for now, it's a good thing.
She does a quick exam -- she's no OB, no GYN, but she knows enough about what she has to do -- and everything feels okay. No baby's head right there yet or anything, though she can tell from the way Beth's abdomen feels that things are moving along and thank Christ the baby's head-down. Good kid, her niece; she can feel it. She knows it. If Sister Ober and Team Ultrasound were here now she'd sure fucking take advantage but they're not. They'll just have to do things the old-fashioned way and a good thing they had all those towels: her water breaks. Out and out and out, all over those towels, and that's what they're there for. "That's a good thing, Beth. That's the amniotic fluid, and the pace on it is nice and slow. Even. Beth Junior's getting ready in there." Once that's happened she rolls Beth to one side first and then the other, removing the top four layers of towels, throwing them in the big bucket. It's all going according to plan.
Before she knows it Spike's back with the pitcher of ice chips and a couple paper cups; Hero directs him to stand at Beth's side, up by the head of the bed, just like Beth requested. There's this little hint of steeliness to his eyes and she recognizes that, too: it's called self-preservation mixed with ego, but he's pretty goddamn easy and does what she asks. "You keep timing them, soldier, and don't let go of her hand." Something for the guy to do: she's pretty much just breezed in here and taken over and that's just the way it has to be. Everything else aside, she's good at what she does. She's detached about it and she's professional about it, and that long-ago training and years of experience step in.
"Don't push yet, Beth, no matter what you want. You're not dilated enough. You're not quite there. If you feel like you have to push... that's what Spike's there for. Squeeze his hand instead, or his arm. He won't mind; we have an agreement." She promised to talk Beth into apathy, in lieu of an epidural or other good drugs. And she sure fucking plans on doing her best.
Spike, keep those ice chips handy. Spike, go freshen up that washcloth.
Beth, breathe. Beth, don't push yet. Beth, mamacita, Santa Madre, you're doing fucking great.
It's been a lot of years since she did this, but she hasn't forgotten that most of labor is just sitting around waiting. Even with that in mind, it's an honor to be here.
When he tells her they're just shy of three minutes apart and last on average almost a minute and it's been that way for about an hour and a half and Beth's starting to get just a little bit bitchy, she knows it's time. "That all sounds about right," she tells him, even though her voice sounds kind of hollow and far away. "Lead the way, dad to be."
If there's any justice in this world -- this fucking universe -- this will be a goddamn smooth delivery. She's not an OB; she's just an out-of-practice paramedic. Still, she's done this before and she's a lot fucking better than having no one at all and she's so goddamn glad Beth isn't all alone in her church in Cooksfield trying to do this by herself. Sure, generations of women did just that before the advent of hospitals and epidurals and fetal monitor belts and Pitocin and all that crap, but if women want to do it alone in their day and age, they do it by choice, not necessity. At least they used to before the plague.
Beth's kid is going to be lucky. She won't be born to the plague world. As she follows Spike down the hall, she wonders idly if baby Vladimir is actually the last kid born on their Earth. Unless lots of people in other countries have been experimenting with sperm banks, he actually might be. It's kind of overwhelming. There used to be 4.2 babies born on Earth every second. That's 250 babies born every minute and 15,008 babies born every hour. Extrapolate and do the math -- not her strongest subject in school, ever, and it's 360,192 new lives on Earth every goddamn day... or at least it used to be. She doesn't know what's going on in other countries since the plague, but goddamn it, that's the way it used to be. And now there's... maybe a handful a year. It's so much more than tragic.
And now isn't the time to think about that, either: it's time to get professional, to do her thing. When she gets to their room Beth's curled up on the bed, wearing just a t-shirt and underpants, clutching her abdomen. Hero flashes her a small grin. "Now that looks like labor, Santa Madre. I got the lowdown from your guy here, who..." Glancing over at Spike, she motions for the pillows; she sets those at the head of the bed. "...who's going to take one of those wash cloths and get it nice and wet with cold water. Then he's going to put it on your forehead and get his ass down to the bar for a pitcher of ice chips. And when he gets back, he's going to feed you ice chips whenever you want, but no more drinking water. It'll make you barf and I don't want to have to clean up more than I'm already going to." With a sharp nod of her head, she sends Spike flying, kind of, and once the washcloth is in place and he's left for the ice chips, Hero rests her hands on Beth's shoulders.
"Okay. Stand with me; I'm going to get that bed ready for you." There's no taking no for an answer and Beth isn't in much of a position to argue. Quickly, efficiently, she strips the comforter off the bed, layers it with towels and spare blankets and more towels, then covers all that with one of the spare bottom sheets. Towels and towels and towels go right under where her butt's gonna sit; after all, her water's going to break sooner or later and they'll need that many of them to catch the fluid, be able to strip it away from under her easily. The big body pillow becomes a headboard; the other six pillows get propped around it so mamacita can half-lie, half-sit comfortably. Hero manages to get that underwear off and cover her from the belly down with yet another spare sheet. After all, Beth's allowed to retain as much modesty as possible. She probably won't give a shit about it when those contractions start coming fast and hard, but for now, it's a good thing.
She does a quick exam -- she's no OB, no GYN, but she knows enough about what she has to do -- and everything feels okay. No baby's head right there yet or anything, though she can tell from the way Beth's abdomen feels that things are moving along and thank Christ the baby's head-down. Good kid, her niece; she can feel it. She knows it. If Sister Ober and Team Ultrasound were here now she'd sure fucking take advantage but they're not. They'll just have to do things the old-fashioned way and a good thing they had all those towels: her water breaks. Out and out and out, all over those towels, and that's what they're there for. "That's a good thing, Beth. That's the amniotic fluid, and the pace on it is nice and slow. Even. Beth Junior's getting ready in there." Once that's happened she rolls Beth to one side first and then the other, removing the top four layers of towels, throwing them in the big bucket. It's all going according to plan.
Before she knows it Spike's back with the pitcher of ice chips and a couple paper cups; Hero directs him to stand at Beth's side, up by the head of the bed, just like Beth requested. There's this little hint of steeliness to his eyes and she recognizes that, too: it's called self-preservation mixed with ego, but he's pretty goddamn easy and does what she asks. "You keep timing them, soldier, and don't let go of her hand." Something for the guy to do: she's pretty much just breezed in here and taken over and that's just the way it has to be. Everything else aside, she's good at what she does. She's detached about it and she's professional about it, and that long-ago training and years of experience step in.
"Don't push yet, Beth, no matter what you want. You're not dilated enough. You're not quite there. If you feel like you have to push... that's what Spike's there for. Squeeze his hand instead, or his arm. He won't mind; we have an agreement." She promised to talk Beth into apathy, in lieu of an epidural or other good drugs. And she sure fucking plans on doing her best.
Spike, keep those ice chips handy. Spike, go freshen up that washcloth.
Beth, breathe. Beth, don't push yet. Beth, mamacita, Santa Madre, you're doing fucking great.
It's been a lot of years since she did this, but she hasn't forgotten that most of labor is just sitting around waiting. Even with that in mind, it's an honor to be here.