61 Minutes to a Miracle. Bonnie L. Engstrom

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      By the time we were all out of bed and beginning our day, I was certain that The Day had arrived; I called my mom and asked her to come over. To keep the contractions going, I did every trick in the book: went for a walk, found every excuse possible to go up and down the stairs, scrubbed the bathtub, danced around the kitchen. When my husband got home from work, we climbed into his old Dodge and went for a drive, hitting every bump in the road. Thank God for potholes — by the time we got home, I was in real labor. After I updated Facebook and my blog with a request for prayers, we called Bernice, my mother-in-law, and a few friends who were coming to help with the labor and child care.

      An hour later, I was laboring in front of the TV when Kim, Bernice’s assistant, arrived. She firmly encouraged me to go on a walk to speed things up. I slipped on my flip-flops and went out the door, grabbing Travis’s hand as I toddled down the porch steps.

      Much to the embarrassment of my husband, my contractions seemed to come under every streetlight. Holding on to him, lit up for anyone who happened to glance out their window to see, I swayed my hips through each contraction. The walk was working, and my contractions were becoming longer, stronger, and closer together. As we approached the main door of the Apostolic Christian Church, which was filled for its Wednesday night service, my most intense contraction of the day hit, causing my water to break. Because we were under yet another streetlight, we were able to see that the fluid was clear, a reassuring sign of a healthy baby in what was otherwise an awkward situation.

      Back at the house, Bernice had arrived and unloaded her medical supplies. She came out to the sidewalk to greet us and ask about my progress. We decided to head upstairs so I could continue laboring in my bedroom, the place I wanted to be for delivery. On my way up, I said goodbye to my mom, who wanted to get a good night’s sleep before the baby came, and hello to our friend Katie and my mother-in-law, Deb, who had all arrived to help.

      Bernice and Kim quickly prepared the bedroom. They turned off the overhead lights so that the only light breaking into the room came from the partially closed closet and hall doors. The dark and shadowy room was calm and relaxing for me. Unlike a hospital’s labor and delivery room, there would be no glare, no stainless steel, and no stiff sheets and gowns. Bernice and Kim would time my contractions, follow my progress, and make handwritten notations on my charts by the glow of a flashlight.

      In my own clothes, among my own things, I labored. A large cup my grandmother had given me held ice water and was within reach at all times. On top of our cluttered dresser were pictures of friends and family, including a black-and-white image of Archbishop Sheen, and knickknacks reminding us of our trips to Poland, Germany, Italy, and Scotland. The bassinette, covered in white eyelet, was tucked in a corner, with clean pajamas, receiving blankets, and small diapers stacked in its bottom storage basket. Flannel-backed vinyl tablecloths lay on the soft brown carpet, fuzzy side up. Fresh towels and absorbent mats were close at hand so they could be added as needed. Our perpetually unmade bed was also made waterproof, while piles of extra pillows and stacks of blankets were placed just so, allowing me to rest between contractions, positioned in a way to keep labor progressing.

      Right away, Bernice brought out her handheld fetal Doppler and held it to my belly, carefully timing the heartbeats as they played out of the speaker for us all to hear. They were strong and steady, and sped up a little bit during my contractions, just like they were supposed to. Knowing that my baby was healthy and that medical professionals were with me, I relaxed into the labor. The pain grew more intense, but I combatted it by swaying my hips as I knelt, breathing deeply, and clinging to my husband’s strong shoulders. Kim and Bernice placed their hands strategically on my lower back and hips, using counter-pressure to aid in pain relief. In between the contractions I rested, lying on my side or sitting back. Sometimes we chatted and joked, but mostly things were quiet.

      Around ten thirty, our friend Jenny arrived. Though a registered nurse, Jenny had never seen an intervention-free birth, and I had invited her to watch and also act as photographer for the event. Armed with a camera and a rosary, she found a spot in the background where she could pray and take pictures while remaining out of the way.

      The whole night felt special. There was something in the air, a powerful sense of peace and beauty that made me feel like I was on the cusp of something great. After all of the affirmation Travis and I had received throughout the pregnancy — after all the ways God had shown us his faithfulness and generosity — I was sure that the baby I was about to deliver had a special life ahead of him.

      Bernice checked the baby’s heart sounds again, and they were perfect. The transitional phase of labor began, and I remembered the penance given to me when I had gone to confession a few days before: to pray out loud with each contraction, thanking Jesus for my baby and for the experience. I started praying. The contractions were close together now, very long and very strong, and I had to lean on my husband for support. At the beginning and the end of each one, I grunted out a prayer. “Thank you, Jesus.” “Oh, sweet Jesus.” “Glory be to God.” And because I was in pain, I sometimes included, “Help me, God!” and “Oh, Mother Mary!” The prayers added to the peaceful yet powerful feeling in the air: Something amazing was about to happen.

      Travis and I were kneeling on the floor, facing each other, and he was physically supporting me. With my hands pushing onto the tops of his thighs, I pressed my head into his chest as I worked through the contractions. He quietly whispered words of encouragement into my ears, while Kim and Bernice softly commented on how well things were progressing. Knowing the baby was coming soon, Bernice asked Kim for the Doppler to check heart tones. Just as Kim brought it to me, a strong contraction began, and I told them that the baby was coming. They quickly set the Doppler aside and prepared to catch a newborn.

      For a moment, caught between the rock and the hard place of push out a baby or stay pregnant forever, I panicked and, like many women before me, said, “I can’t do this.” Travis told me, “Yes, you can. You’ve done it before, and you can do this now.” Kim, in her best doula voice, told me firmly: “Bonnie, you’ve got to get this baby out now. You can do this.” Slowly, I pushed my baby down, allowing my body time to do what it was supposed to do — to stretch and gently make room. During those last moments, I felt like I was in control: A contraction would come, and I would slowly and carefully push my crowning child out. I knew I was moments away from holding my baby. I knew that very soon I would be showered and wearing fresh pajamas, tucked into bed, and studying the old-man-like face of my newborn. Travis was certain the baby was a boy, and we were moments away from seeing whether he was correct.

      One last push, and the head was out. As Bernice guided the body, I gave two more pushes, and my baby boy was born. Bernice swooped him up and placed him into my arms. I was exhausted and needed to sit after hours of kneeling. “Say his name, Bonnie. Say it and rub his back,” she commanded me. Bernice sounded urgent, but I was too tired to really notice the tone in her voice. I slowly and gently rubbed his back and dreamily said: “James. Hello, James. It’s your mama.”

      But his arms dangled at his sides. He wasn’t crying or moving or breathing, and instead of being a gooey-covered pink, he was ashen blue.