Free A New Life by Stephanie Kepke

“Look,” they told me. And I did.
    The head was gray and wrinkly, like some sort of alien, reflected in the large mirror positioned at the foot of the bed. Seeing that head kept me going as the pain ripped through me and a ring of fire circled between my legs.
    “Can I push longer?” I asked, gasping.
    They had already counted to ten, the nurse and my husband, Zach, each holding one knee. I took an extra sip of air at seven—they didn’t know this; I was supposed to hold my breath and bear down all the way through to the count of ten—so I could push a bit longer. I needed to. That wrinkly gray head, slick with wet swirls of hair, needed to come out.
    “You can if you need to, Grace, but remember to rest.” The nurse patted my leg. During the thirty seconds before the next contraction hit, she put the oxygen mask over my face. “Breathe,” she whispered in my ear.
    An hour earlier the epidural wore off just around the same time the Pit drip kicked in with a force that knocked the air out of me. “We need another cocktail,” the nurse shouted into the intercom.
    It seemed like an eternity before the anesthesiologist slid next to me, colorful pendants hanging from his neck almost brushing my cheek. Each contraction still grabbed me in the back first, then the belly and strangled me. Whatever he shot into me didn’t make much of a difference. But, that head kept me going and I bore down with all my might, feeling stronger and weaker than ever before.
    “Go, Grace. Go, Grace. Push. Push. Push. Go. Go. Go.”
    I was a racecar driver. My pit team was cheering me on. I was about to finish the Boston Marathon, the New York City Marathon, the Iron Man Triathlon. I was Woman hear me roar.
    Suddenly there was a knifing pain and a release. “Oh my God,” I gasped.
    “The head’s out,” Dr. Spellman said.
    Moments later they shouted, “It’s a boy!” and suddenly the warm, slippery baby—my baby—was placed on a blanket on my chest. I hadn’t cried once, but now it flowed. I gazed at the tiny boy. Bits of blood clung to his face.
    “He’s so cute,” I said.
    The moment seemed anticlimactic, but I was shocked by how cute he really was and how instantly I fell in love. In childbirth class they prepared us for a squished head and beat-up face—but he was perfect.
    Even the nurses said he looked like a C-section baby. “You’re so lucky,” they said.
    “Hello, Henry,” I whispered. “Hello, my baby.”
    Zach leaned over us, stroking my hair. I barely even noticed the contractions urging me to deliver the placenta.
    After the cleaning up, weighing and Apgars, counting fingers and counting toes, everyone cleared out of the room so Henry and I could try nursing. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows illuminating not just the room, but the Boston skyline as well. Henry was surprisingly hungry and latched on right away. It hurt more than I expected; but it would get easier. I wanted to pinch myself. Was I dreaming? My son suckled at my breast. He was less than an hour old, but I’d known him forever.
    We decided to have a baby because of a pregnant tree. Rather, we decided when to have a baby because of a pregnant tree—a skinny tree with a big round belly of a bump. Zach and I were hiking around Walden Pond, when the question just slid out between my lips. “Should we start trying?”
    Zach sucked in his breath before answering, “I don’t know. Isn’t it a little soon? We’ve only been married a year.”
    I was already been thinking about it for months at that point, from the moment my sister, Paula, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer not long after Zach and I said our vows. A fear that I faced the same fate had wrapped its fingers around me then and wouldn’t let go. I was scared for her, of course, but I was also scared that if I didn’t get pregnant just then—who knew what might happen?
    My mother had called me with the news. She barely whispered Paula’s biopsy results, before