Birth.

The contractions started around midnight on Tuesday morning...a morning which I have replayed, reviewed and relived in my head a countless number of times. Like most natural processes, the rhythmic cramping came over me so gently at first that I doubted its authenticity. Pregnancy ushered in so many new sensations that I became accustomed to mysterious aches and pains in even the most unsuspecting parts of my body. I attempted to stay calm and not let the excitement and adrenaline that were building to completely overtake me. I did not want to start celebrating too early and get my hopes up that our son was coming today and not three weeks later when he was due. It was with these thoughts in mind that I told Rob to go to sleep reassuring him that I would wake him if the pain increased. I dutifully tried to stay in bed, thinking that if I was going into false labor rest would surely help.

Time marched on and after an hour I found myself on the couch tracking each contraction with an app on my iPod (which I highly recommend to expectant mothers). Over the span of two more hours my contractions increased in force and length and I knew something was going on. Although at that point, I still did not know what exactly. Though I was excited at the prospect of seeing Sprout that day I was characteristically anxious. I did not know that I was in fact in labor. I wanted proof and I wanted my instincts to be legitimate enough to warrant a mad dash to the hospital. It was only when I found myself grasping onto the pole of our lamp wincing that I felt it was time to take action. I woke Rob, who shot out of bed in a delirium. I showered while he raced around our room and shoved random clothes, books and electronics in bags. We exchanged laughs and excited smiles as we waddled out of the door with thoughts of meeting Sprout and starting a new chapter in our life together.

Rob played the part of the nervous father-to-be perfectly as he haphazardly drove us to the hospital and each crack, bump and hole in the road reverberated throughout my body. We parked at the hospital and slowly made our way to Labor and Delivery. It was a long walk through the lobby since I had to rest between my contractions which took my breath away as they became more forceful. By 4:00 a.m. the nurse discovered that I was dilated six centimeters and I was in fact in labor.

We made our way to our delivery room and called our parents to tell them the happy news. My mom raced to the hospital to join us and Rob talked to his mom and dad on Skype while I bounced on an exercise ball to relieve the pressure on my pelvis. We rocked and swayed back and forth to distract me from the contractions which were gaining in intensity. Numerous doctors and nurses checked on us, monitoring my heart rate and Sprout's, which were perfect. The next three hours are a blur and although they were filled with pain there was an undeniable undercurrent of joy and love in our room. Rob, ever the watchful and caring husband, was the exemplary labor coach. In the most difficult and painful moments of labor he led me in breathing techniques to help me relax, always reassuring and encouraging me.

When I had dilated to nine centimeters the attending doctor decided to break my water to move things along. Merconium was in my water and the doctor called in a team of pediatricians from the NICU to the room so they could suck it out of Sprout's lungs after he was born. In a matter of minutes I felt the urge to push and the final phase began. Surprise overtook me with the first push as I realized that there were not more endorphins pumping through my body to make the pain more tolerable. The burning sensation in the lower half of my body (legs included) was so intense at times that I can remember crying "owie" as beads of sweat mingled with tears on my face. However, with each series of pushing came a blessed reprieve where I was able to rest and prepare for the next round. In no time at all, my doctor told me that I was making good progress and that Sprout's head was crowning. It felt as good as I imagined it to feel when Rob grinned at me and told me that our son had blond curly hair. I had greater resolve as I pushed but I was exhausted. It then occurred to me that the word labor is an accurate description for the process of bringing new life into this world. Minutes later his head was free and joy and relief filled the room.

But there was a complication.

The umbilical cord was tightly wound around our little one's neck but the situation was unknown to us as I kept pushing. My doctor could not loosen the cord around his neck with her hands so she pulled him out and immediately had Rob cut it free. At 8:10 am on Tuesday, February 9 Sprout was born but within seconds he was with the pediatricians. We did not hear his first cry as we anticipated. Rob did not have a ceremonial Kodak moment of cutting his first child's cord, and my arms ached with emptiness and the longing to hold my son. It was then that Rob and I understood that there was a problem. I wondered why my doctor moved so quickly to pass Sprout over to the pediatricians and I watched her in a stupor as all blood drained from her face. I repeatedly asked her what was going on as I delivered the afterbirth. She told me she did not know, and perhaps even worse, she did not know if everything was okay. My eyes moved over Rob, my mom and my doctor's faces as we all tried to understand what was happening.

He was just minutes old when the pediatricians performed CPR on him for the first time. He was born not breathing and he was making no attempt to do so on his own. When they had finally stabilized and intubated him Rob was invited to see his son for the first time. Even from behind I could see how deeply Rob loved our child. His shoulders softened, his head lowered in quiet reverence and his voice spoke in gentle tones of love. He came back to my bedside and told me how cute Sprout was, how beautiful his features were. It was sometime after this that they had to perform CPR on him for the second time and his condition was deemed critical enough to necessitate immediate treatment in the NICU.

As they wheeled him away down the hall a nurse called out to us and asked if he had a name for his charts.

Without hesitation and without even seeing his face, I told her.

His name is Henry Robert.

Happy eight months, angel. You are the light of our lives and we love you so much.