Things must be getting serious now. It's no longer just me, Estella, my mom, and Jimmie in here. All of a sudden, the room is full of nurses, and the doctor has strolled in. Estella is still front and center, so to speak, and she stays there for another few contractions.
At this point, I am exhausted. Husband is laughing at me every time I stop pushing and snatch the oxygen mask from his hands. Mom tells him that pure oxygen is like crack, or something to that effect. In reality, I'm using it as a sort of focal point, trying to convince myself that it's safe to relax as long as the mask is on my face.
Estella had turned the epidural machine back on, but it couldn't catch up. Yet everyone in the room sees that I have an epidural, so there is some mild surprise when I start screaming at the pain (note: Jimmie tells me that I only screamed once, but I am positive that I never stopped screaming). The doctor asks me if I'm feeling pressure. No, PAIN.
So, the doctor looks at me between contractions, and he says..."Do you want some help?" I just stare at him in response. "Do you know what a kiwi is?"
My brain has already decided that a furry, flightless New Zealand avian could have nothing to do with my current situation, so I shake my head.
"Well, it's this little brown fruit, very good for you." I barely have time to glare at him before he continues, without missing a beat. "It's a small little suction cup, it's going to go right on the baby's head, and I'm just going to use two fingers to kind of help you." He mimes the action. Ok. How much could that possibly help?
"I think it might cut about 20 minutes off the pushing--"
SOLD.
With the next contraction, I hear encouraging noises from everyone in the room. I figured I'd have another five or ten minutes of pushing instead of twenty-five or thirty, but that little magical kiwi did the trick. I'm screaming in pure agony, and the doctor is telling me, "Look, look!" I literally try to look, but I can't see anything.
One more push, and then the doctor triumphantly lifts the baby into my view. "It's a baby girl."
Within seconds, she is plopped onto my chest, and all I can do is say, ...baby girl, baby girl..., over and over. I grab her slimy little hand while the nurses clean most of the goop off of her. Successfully deliver child: check. Be completely surprised that it was a girl and not a boy: check.