“Whaddya mean sideways?” Barry Truce took it personally when things didn’t go to plan.
“He must have rolled sometime this afternoon. It happens.” The nurse spoke calmly; she’d dealt with expectant fathers before.
Truce took his wife’s hand. “What’s she mean sideways, Pumpkin’?”
Pamela Truce squeezed his hand as another contraction swelled. “The baby’s breach. If we deliver, Barty could be hurt.”
“So how do we stop this until he rolls over again?”
“We can’t stop it, sir,” the nurse said. “I can try to rotate him, but we can’t stop the contractions.”
“C-section?” Pamela asked.
“Probably best to prepare,” the nurse said. “I’ve paged your doctor.” She placed her hands on Pamela’s belly, pushed high on one side, low on the other. She tried tickling and pushing. No response.
Doctor Freberg came in, greeted the Truces, checked Barty’s stats. “Well,” he said, “the good news is that Barty’s not experiencing stress. The bad news is he seems to be a contrary teenager, already.”
Pamela forced a smile, hushed Barry’s “what’s he mean?” question. “C-section, then?”
“Safest course, I think,” Freberg said. “I can get the paperwork here in about five minutes. I’ll call the anesthesiologist—he’ll prep an epidural to numb you from the waist down. Surgery should be underway in twenty, thirty minutes.
Pamela looked at the bedside clock: 11:59 PM, Saturday, June 17, 2000; it rolled over to midnight. She squeezed Barry’s hand. “Happy Father’s Day, Noodle. I love you.”
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