"What if I don't feel anything when she's born? Why is that thought there? My chest is already tight. Why is that there? What does that mean?
It's the 7 am shift change at the hospital, and my right leg is doing that thing where it's trying to punch my foot through the floor like a demented jackhammer.
A new nurse walks in. Her name is Helena. My wife's contractions have gone from 0 to 'I want the epidural,' and thanks to the shift change, the anesthesiologist isn't here yet.
Helena. Her head wrap has dogs with hats on it. There isn't much of her light hair poking out underneath. Her scrubs swish as she moves.
"And you're the dad?"
She speaks directly. Her tone puts me off — I don't like her.
Now she's talking to the heart rate monitor: "I talk to the babies, even before they're here." She laughs, I fake smile.
That's fantastic, lady. I return to my anxious thoughts. No one told me we would feel this alone. Help your wife. Try to help her. Be a good dad.
"Just breathe," I say. I'm sure the terror in my eyes is not helping Emily.
It doesn’t.
"Hey," Helena stops, stands by the bed, and grabs my wife's hand with both of hers. "Breathe, just breathe.” She pats her shaking hands. “They'll get better." I hadn’t noticed her eyes. Her cheeks have spilled into them from the smile beneath her mask. She grabs a pillow and helps my wife onto her side.
"This'll help. I've been in delivery wards for years. I've got all the tricks in the book."
She's smiling and moving about like Snow White with the woodland creatures — if Snow White said things like: "We're going to close this curtain so no one sees your hoo-ha." She is more comfortable in a labor and delivery ward than a spa.
"She's gonna nap," she turns to me. "You're gonna go eat." She doesn't command. She doesn't request. She states a fact. So I go, knowing my wife is in the most capable hands in the universe.
"I love her," I say to my wife as I leave.
"Me too." Maybe it's the drugs, maybe it was Helena. Either way, my wife isn't afraid.
I hear Helena say "I hate needles. I'm deathly afraid of them," as I close the door behind me.
After my biscuits and gravy with a little black pepper and some runny eggs, I'm back in the room. Helena has the place running like a Navy ship, and my wife is sleeping with the first relaxed look on her face in hours.
"If you're from Michigan, what brought you down here?" I ask.
"Retirement," she's setting up a catheter. “Still haven’t found a church that preaches the Bible. You know any?”
She smiles as she adjusts the monitor and finds my daughter's heartbeat. "There you are. You like a certain spot, don't you? I told you I talk to the babies."
Later, Helena will grab my phone from the counter and ask me for the passcode. She wants to get a picture of me holding my daughter for the first time. She saw the joy leaking from my soul to my eyeballs to my bare chest where my daughter rests her head.
"Have to capture that," she smiles.