Bright.

 I'd been laboring for over 24 hours. Though only part-way through my 2nd year of med school and this being my first pregnancy, I still knew we were reaching some sort of limit. The OB walks in to check progress. This woman was not my regular provider.  (Because, of course, my doc had warned me not to go into labor early because she was out of town the weekend before my due date). I'm not sure I'd even met her before this day. I knew of her, mostly because of her reputation as one of the few docs that still performed abortions. When she walked in for the first time, I could see she had no fucks to give. By my estimate, the last fuck she gave was probably at age 11 in the the 5th grade. Badass. Pretty sure she went outside to smoke cigs between surgeries and cervical checks. I appreciated Dr. B because she trusted me, my body and my veteran nurse (who happened to know me well from my swimming days, therefore knew the caliber of my so-called grit.)

She'd sort of saunter in every few hours or so, look at the monitor, talk to the nurse and shrug "Guess you can keep going" then walk out...for coffee and a smoke? I could tell her overall attitude was one of skepticism. She'd seen thousands of women with premature rupture of the membranes, with slow progression go over the 24 hour mark, which typically means cesarean. Infection risk and all that. And just as she suspected, I progressed at a snail's pace. (I'm not going to get into my theories that the night nurse simply didn't want me to progress so as to avoid an actual delivery...because, in the end, time of delivery doesn't really matter, now does it?)

A fascinating piece to this, and even as a 2nd year med student, I identified on the monitor a pattern of early decelerations in the infants heart rate - indicating that the cord might be wrapped around it's neck. If the heart rate recovers immediately, post contraction, you can carry on...so...we carried on. Again, she shrugged. No fucks. 

All this being said, the clock was not our friend. My incredible nurse looked at me and said, "the baby is slightly turned, but we have to start pushing. I'm going to try to turn it's head while you push as hard as you can with every contraction. I know you can do this. I saw you swim."  We did this. For over 3 hours. In this 3 hours, the anesthesiologist (a former grade-school classmate of my husband's) visited twice, in prep for potential cesarean. Dr. B all but said, "call me when it's time to operate." Again, coolly meandering out the room. 

I'll never forget the absolute shocked look on the doc's face, when she walked in the room at 27 hours and my nurse said, "it's time to deliver a baby." The shock dissolved quickly into what appeared to be simple routine baby catching - she's done a million times before. I got no impression that she would remember me and my herculean pushing efforts which resulted in avoiding an all but inevitable cesarean. I am woman, hear me ROAR. 

With that, my entire body shook, and ripped in two, and I simultaneously experienced the worst pain in my life and the most peaceful, content euphoria and amazement as my firstborn son cried and gazed at me. After she had unwrapped the cord THREE times from around his neck, of course. The nurse stood flabbergasted, "a triple nuchal! That explains everything." But, Brock just stared. Straight into my eyes. Straight into my soul. I swear I could see the wheels already spinning; you are my mother. I am here. What is this world? How can I learn about it immediately? Huge. Curious. Piercing. Alert. AWARE. Beautiful, bright eyes. 

The doctor continued with my excruciating perineal care, telling me I shouldn't be feeling this (I later found out that my epidural wore off at some point in those 3 hours of pushing.) She finished. Walked up to the head of the bed to stand by me. I don't know what I thought she would say, "sorry for the pain with all those stitches. You did incredible. I think you're the most amazing woman to have ever delivered a baby in all my history of being an OB." In complete monotone she says, "I have never given an infant 9 and 10 APGARs, because, well, that just doesn't happen. So I gave your son 8 and 9. BUT. If I were willing to give 9 and 10...that's the first baby I've ever seen with it. And that's with a cord wrapped around his neck 3 times." She sort of stood there for a moment, in seeming amazement. The most emotion I'd observed on her face up to that point. Then strolled out of that room, never to be seen again. (Well, until I ran into her at target, years later.)

Brock and my blood-type don't match - which usually produces Jaundice. He had none. The child does not get sick, even to this day. And his eyes and curiosity have never, ever stopped. He is about to complete his freshman year at Rockhurst, and will take on the hardest academic curriculum possible as a Sophomore. I see him and how he operates and feel like a lowly bystander.  And in these moments, I can't help but remember the day he was born, the look in his strikingly bright, alert eyes, and the stunned reaction of that veteran, cowboy of an OB that seemed impressed by nothing...and think to myself; we all always knew you were something extraordinary.