Joy Transcended

The stink of sweat, antiseptic, and despair fills my nostrils. I am dying.

"Bear down and push," the midwife barks. Her voice is void of any comfort.

I muster my remaining strength and do as she asks, not because I want to obey, but because nature has given me no choice. I am unable to endure this pain with the grace that is expected of me. I scream until I am on the verge of fainting and black spots swirl in my vision. My body falls slack; I can push no longer.

"It's been hours," Belinda hisses. "My nerves can't take this."

I can't make out what she says next over the ringing in my ears, but it's probably for the best. Belinda is waving a scalpel in the midwife's face. I am replaceable; the child stuck in my body is not.

Another contraction seizes me and I taste bile at the back of my throat. I struggle again to free my salvation from my womb. Suddenly, the midwife shouts, "It's coming feet first."

She and Belinda are yelling. Something feels wrong, but I'm in too deep to care. I keep pushing and suddenly, there's a rush of water and the pressure is gone, leaving me numb and shaking.

"What is it?" Belinda cries.

"A boy," the midwife replies.

"Good for him," I whisper. He will never know his mothers' burdens.

"Why isn't he crying?" Belinda wails. "What's wrong with my son?"

My heart stalls. Why isn't he crying? Nine months of waiting and agonizing, hoping this one would be the one. There had been so many other disappointments.

My ears strain against the blood rushing through my head and I hear a soft squeak, followed by intense squalling. I threaten to burst with relief. We have done it.

"Let me hold him," Belinda demands, stretching out her arms. But then she stiffens, makes a choking sound, and runs from the room sobbing.

"What's wrong?" I croak.

He's half swaddled in a soft white blanket. The midwife sets him on my chest and rises from her stool, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm. He is tiny and gooey and loud, but he looks healthy and I realize for the first time that I have made this person. 

My sluggish hand peels the cloth away from his body and that's when I see his hands. They are misshapen things with fused fingers twisted and knotted into claws. There is no word to describe the emotion that bubbles inside me and begins to flow down my cheeks. We are all crying now. A handmaid's nightmare has replaced a mother's joy.

The midwife will call it mercy. She will hold a pillow over his face or put him outside for the frigid air to correct this mistake. I glance out the window and see dawn cresting the horizon. There is strength in me yet. I do not know how I will do it, but I know what I must do.