Between Octobers

A Beginning

A Beginning

Walking along the grassy edge of the plain, I feel the dreaded pain in my back and low abdomen. The tightening muscles seize up, tilting me forward. I stop and breathe, holding the cries, counting until it stops. Not too painful, but definitely a contraction. 

Not here. Not now.

It's been hours since I felt him move. It feels like hours since I reached the field, but the sun is still low on the horizon.

It was my seventh contraction—twelve breaths long and much tighter than the others. 

I turn on my Nurse Voice, speaking to myself in a metered tone. Stay calm. Keep going. You can do this. Find the Jeep. Get the hide-a-key. Get help.

As the thirteenth contraction bows my back in a frightening wave of unforgiving pain, I see a glimmer off in the distance. Fifteen slow, practiced breaths later, after the tightening pain loosens, I look up again to see the blessed, old, cobalt blue Jeep Cherokee with the hatch still hanging open.

Walking—the one, surefire way to speed up my labor—is the only way to get there. On I plod, slow and steady. I have to get back. Lily and the boys are probably worried sick.

I was in labor for nearly thirty hours with Noah before the c-section, and seven with Caleb. I can do this. Time is on my side.

The next contraction is thoroughly unbearable. No amount of breathing or concentration can control it, but I keep moving towards my hope in the distance until the pain spreads into my thighs, bringing me to a halt. My legs buckle as I bend into the pain.

Every cell in my body is pushed to the limit. I watch my tensed fingers claw and clutch at each other and the ground. The pain in my shoulder is a walk in the park by comparison.

I concentrate on the bits of bark sprinkling the ground around me. One is shaped like a lima bean.

Thirty-three breaths later, it finally stops.

Crap that was a long one!

I wipe my eyes with my sweatshirt, draw a deep breath, and make a mad dash for the Jeep.

The time between contractions has shortened by half. The contractions themselves are longer than the breaks between and I'm very worried about the strange twinge, low in my belly. The pain of it feels different than the labor pains. It stops me in my tracks, as if I've just smacked into a wall.

So close!

My driveway's longer than the distance between me and my car. My escape and first-aid kit. The ragged pain is crippling. Muscles tighten, cramps like rocks. I'm writhing in the grass and earth, heaving in bouts of agony ranging from severely debilitating to absolute, gut-wrenching anguish. Nothing on earth can compare. I gnash my teeth together and scream, wondering if being disemboweled by wild animals while simultaneously being sawed in half would result in a similar pain.    

The intensity's gaining as the uneasy bulge builds between my legs. The grass under me is stained a worrisome red.

I pitifully cling to my practiced method of breathing exercises and focus on crawling to the hatch. Concentrating on each tiny movement—lifting my wide-spread knees one at a time; right then left, shifting my weight, straining as my elbows scrape along the ground. Bits of bark splinter into the sleeves of my shirt as I struggle to keep my wrists aloft. The skin around the zip-tie is raw, bruised, and bleeding. I press forward, inching closer to the hatch—focusing on my plight is the only thing keeping me from complete insanity.