Chapter 29

Our due date, a Monday, came and went—so much for going into labor early. Five days later, on a Saturday, I awoke in the middle of the night with back pain. I had heard from everyone that early contractions felt like intense lower abdominal cramps, so it did not occur to me until about six A.M. that this back pain was coming and going in regular intervals and that I might in fact be having back labor.

We hung out that morning at home, waiting to see if this was the real thing or not. When I had to stop our pancake breakfast every few minutes to contort and writhe, hands pressing to my lower back, we decided that it was in fact real. Since Dave was not able to drive, my mother-in-law drove us down to Northwestern Prentice Women’s Hospital, and we were admitted to the labor and delivery floor by midday.

Our baby girl was in no rush. The epidural worked its magic as I had contractions all day, FaceTiming with relatives and trying to wrap my head around the fact that we were about to become parents.

The Chicago Cubs were playing that evening for a chance to go to the World Series. It would be their first time playing in the World Series since World War II. They had not won a World Series in over a century. That they might now be on the verge of going to the World Series was a big deal; I cannot overstate how momentous this was for Dave and indeed for all long-suffering Cubs fans. The entire city of Chicago was in a postseason tizzy of red and blue. Our labor and delivery nurse told us: “I just moved to Chicago and I wasn’t a Cubs fan, but now I am!” We put the game on in the background in our hospital room, Dave turning his attention toward the TV in between contractions.

The sun set on a beautiful fall day. Night fell over an entire city watching a baseball game. My baby was still taking her time, but finally, by nine, it was time to start pushing.

Our incredible rehab doctor at RIC, Dr. Harvey, had told us on Dave’s first day there: “I suspect that Dave will be able to participate in the birth of your daughter.” I had not really believed him at the time. Sure, I had wanted to believe, I had hoped that he was correct, but at the time I had doubts; I just could not see how Dave would be in any shape to participate in the birth, much less the tasks of caring for a newborn.

But he did, he was. Dr. Harvey had been correct. Dave sat by my side the entire time. He monitored my contractions, he cheered me on, and he brought me damp washcloths to swab the sweat from my face.

At one point, the nurse’s attention was pulled to something across the hospital room and Dave jumped right in, counting down for me as I pushed through a contraction. The Cubs lost. It was an ugly defeat that, on any other night, would have crushed Dave, but on this night it was an afterthought.

After two hours of pushing, Lilly emerged and was there in the room with us; a part of this world, a part of our family.

It was not until a few weeks after the birth that my father-in-law admitted to me how nervous he and Louisa had been through the late months of my pregnancy and indeed throughout my labor (they sat in the waiting room for the entire day and night). They had been deeply concerned that the stress of the stroke and recovery might have had some adverse consequences on Lilly’s health in the womb.

But when Lilly came out, she was perfect. I remember those first few moments so well: Lilly’s first cry, the medical team clamping the cord and allowing Dave to cut it, the doctor and nurses whisking her across the room to the scale. Lying in the hospital bed, I watched, unable to rise and participate in the huddle around the baby, but I remember seeing Dave as part of it all, leaning over the scale, his eyes fixed on Lilly’s soft, pink little body. I saw it in his face: he was completely smitten.

I thanked God for Lilly. And then I thanked God for the fact that Dave was there with us, that my daughter would know her father.