Editor’s note: “It took exactly 18 minutes” is one of the winning entries in the Faulkner Mixtape Writing Contest. The challenge was to create a nonfiction piece with two different narrators.

It took exactly 18 minutes

The clock said 7pm. Amidst all the chaos I make a mental note of that. Maybe I’m trying to calm myself with something to focus on. It didn’t last long as here comes another one. Christ that hurts. My fingers are gripping the bed rails. There are about six women in the room and a man has taken Mark away to change into overalls. I’m being pricked and prodded from all directions. Paperwork being flicked through. Questions being asked. Previous answers being confirmed. What the hell does it matter? Just get on with it would you! That bright light right above my head is pissing me off. Onto my left side. In goes the epidural and my third blood vessel catheter in four weeks. Through the next set of swinging double doors and we’re in theatre. Curtain goes up. My husband is six-foot-five, he’ll be able to see over that when he gets here. My arms are placed out like I’m on a cross. Bags of blood are lined up. Reassuring words come from very nice midwives and anesthetists, all women. This room is full of specialists. Mark arrives in green overalls and a blue shower cap and even though I’m scared shitless I’m laughing as he looks hilarious. They’re too short and they haven’t got wellies to fit his size 15s so he’s wearing thongs! He’s sitting beside my head and sure enough they raise the curtain up another few inches. Can’t have him passing out. He’s trying to be comforting, makes a joke with the doctors. Here she is, our tiny daughter. It took exactly 18 minutes. They whisk her away for an immediate test and its five minutes until she’s introduced to us. Is she still breathing? Yes, thank god. So far, so good. We’ve known for the last eight weeks that she’s a girl. Comforting as they grow faster in the womb than boys and apparently suffer less disabilities when they’re born. I can feel someone rummaging around in there, like they’re washing their hands in my stomach. Now she’s sewing me up. I wonder what I’ll feel like when these drugs wear off. A gaping hole in my stomach is going to hurt for a while. They’re saying she’s a good length and weight for one almost three months early. Five weeks on and she’s still in the special care nursery. Mark went back to work after two weeks with us. I’m here beside her cot reading to her again. I wonder if she’ll remember anything about Richard Branson’s autobiography! Sometimes I cry totally unexpectedly. The stress of all this is unbelievable but still it’s a bit embarrassing. There are far worse cases than ours. Oh god, another one. I don’t think I can watch their faces again. That’s the third time they’ve pulled the curtains around an incubator. That baby isn’t going to make it and any minute those young parents are going to cry and wail. It makes me cry too. Out of heartbreak for them and guilt that ours is still alive. I’m going to turn my stool around and tomorrow I’ll buy those damn headphones.

~

I’m so tired. It’s what I feel the most with these long shifts. And it’s Saturday night again. My social life has vanished. I suppose the money is good but I miss my wife. I’m getting to like living here and I’ll keep sending the money home so she can join me soon. Cheap flights these days from India. I’m certainly missing her cooking! That Indian takeaway near my apartment isn’t much good. Who do they think they’re kidding calling that authentic Indian food? Got to make some spare beds soon as these premature babies just keep coming. Which ones are we going to send home today I wonder? And the sick ones. Dear God, yesterday’s boy with that massive distended stomach. They tell me you get used to that after a while. There’s plenty of check ups for me to do tonight. Better get a coffee then get stuck into it. Yes please, this baby here, I need you to hold her on her side while I withdraw the spinal fluid. Checking for any abnormalities. She’s a passive little thing isn’t she. Not fussed while some scream the place down. Nearly done. Oh here’s her mother. Hello, did you get some dinner? Good timing as we’re all done here now. Look she’s totally fine. Many babies born earlier and smaller than her turn out perfectly normal. You can stop crying. Really? Nine weeks away from home is a long time. I give her a reassuring shoulder squeeze. My wife is called Tina too. Your baby will be fine. She just has to rest, eat and grow stronger. She’ll stop the apnea episodes and be able to breathe unassisted soon. Maybe you should get some rest too. I move on and from a few beds along I see Tina get her book out and start reading aloud. Just loud enough for her baby to hear but not disturbing anyone else. She reads a lot. That’s good as her baby will know her voice. What’s she reading? Can’t see it from here. This baby on the end has an infection I think. His blood pressure is too high and his pallor isn’t right. Better get a second opinion. Yes I thought so. Where are those catheters? I bet that English nurse has used the last one again and hasn’t refilled the box. We’ll give him antibiotics until he comes good. Oh no, another one. Glad it’s not on my round. I’m not looking forward to the first time I have to tell the parents that their baby is going to die. Some seem to go into shock and don’t say anything. Others start to cry, some loudly. I’m not comfortable with hugging strangers but sometimes they just want to hug. These parents are young ones tonight. I think they knew it was coming. There’s a lot of nodding going on and the look of acceptance. I can see Tina watching. She can see through the mobile curtains from where she’s sitting. She twists her stool around, turns away frowning and keeps reading, probably so she doesn’t cry again.

Author’s Notes:

The first narrative is obviously from my personal viewpoint. It is entirely true and I could have rambled on for ages as the whole hospital experience lasted 13 weeks.

The second viewpoint is from one of my doctors.  He wasn’t one I knew very well but I’ve written it as true to form as possible. I chose him because he performed the spinal fluid extraction which is an event that will sit in the not so nice picture bank of my memory forever.

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Tina Spice recently turned 40 and has decided to make a career change to pursue writing. She is a student in the MatadorU travel writing program. This is her first published story.