Page 66 of Griffin
The ambulance hits a bump, and the monitor beeps again; it’s too slow, too soft, and I’m scared, but I feel Griffin’s hand wrapped around mine, steady and unbreakable.
“Just hold on,” he whispers, thumb stroking my knuckles. “Hold on to me. We’re getting your baby out safe. Together.”
“And I see the head… Get ready to push!” The doctor’s voice cuts through the haze. It’s a new doctor. Someone apparently specialized in obstetrics who took over my care as soon as I arrived. It should feel unsettling to have yet another man all up in my business, but it’s all a blur.
I turn to Griffin, searching his face. “I can’t do it… I can’t…” I’m sweating, my hair is wet and stuck to the back of my neck. My body hurts from my head to my toes. I feel exhaustion like I’ve never felt before, deep down to my bones.
“You can… One more, sweetness. Just one more push, and it’s done…” His forehead presses to mine, his hands gripping mine like a lifeline. “You’ve got this, I know you do. You’re amazing, a fucking warrior. One more, sweet thing, just one more push…”
“Okay…” I whisper, though nothing feels okay. My body is a battlefield—limbs numb, belly taut, my core a burning ring of fire.
“Push!” the doctor orders, giving me an encouraging look.
I scream, the sound primal, raw. I squeeze Griffin’s hands so tight, I expect to feel his fingers crack, but he doesn’t flinch. He holds on, steady, as he has been all this time. My calm river through the storm, grounding me. Giving me his strength. I push with everything I’ve got, which admittedly isn’t much. And it’s then I hear it. A cry. A beautiful, furious cry.
I freeze. The world stills.
“You did it! You did it!” Griffin kisses my head over and over, and tears spill down my cheeks as I choke out my emotions. Pulling me close, he cups my face, kissing my cheeks next like he’s trying to memorize me.
“I did it… I did it…” I barely exhale the words, in disbelief. I did it. I delivered my baby.
“Good work, sweetness… I’m so proud of you,” Griffin murmurs, looking a little in shock himself.
“We did it,” I whisper, because we did. We’ve been in this together for hours. For months. For a lifetime, it feels like.
“And it’s a boy!” the doctor announces.
“A boy?” I echo, stunned. I look at Griffin, wide-eyed, and then around the room, trying to see. The doctor lifts him, tiny, wrinkled, perfect, and places him on my bare chest.
“Oh my…” My hands tremble as I cradle him. I don’t feel like I have enough strength to hold him, but Griffin’s large hand is there, helping me, guiding my son to me. My baby’s skin is warm, damp, impossibly soft and pink. He has a sprinkle of dark hair crowning his head.
“A boy,” Griffin says again. His voice is reverent and full of wonder. He hasn’t let go of me. One hand brushes my hair back from my face, the other resting lightly on my son’s back. The three of us are tangled together in this moment, a fragile, sacred bubble.
“Let us take him quickly and wrap him so he remains warm. Does Dad want to cut the cord?” a nurse asks innocently.
“Oh, I’m…” Griffin starts, looking a little lost now in this busy hospital room. The shock of what he witnessed is obvious.
“Do it,” I tell him quickly, wanting him to be part of all of this.
“You want me to?” His eyebrows pinch, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“Yeah. I want you to.” If my son can be half the man Griffin is, then I know he’ll be amazing.
He swallows hard. I see it. The emotion he’s trying to keep down. He hasn’t slept. Not a second. He’s been with me every step. Feeding me ice chips. Holding my hair back. Lifting me when I couldn’t stand. Walking me through contractions. Dancing with me in the hallway when I needed to move. He’s been on the phone, barking orders, ensuring I’m looked after. He’s been my anchor, my strength.
He deserves this moment.
Griffin cups my face, kisses me once, but it’s enough to have my stomach flipping, and then follows the doctor to the side.
I hear the baby’s soft cries as the nurses tend to me, adjusting the bed, checking vitals, cleaning me up, but I’m oblivious to it all as I watch Griffin, the biggest man in the room, standing protectively over the smallest. His shoulders are squared, but I see him swipe at his eyes before he turns back to me.
“Here, Mom,” the nurse says gently. “Place him on your chest. He may start to suckle.”
I do as she says, and sure enough, the baby latches on, instinctive and determined.
“He won’t drink much, but it’s great to get him started. Skin-to-skin with Dad is important too.”
She smiles and leaves us be. We don’t correct them. We don’t feel the need.
