#childbirth

[reasonsforhope]

"The first modern attempt at transferring a uterus from one human to another occurred at the turn of the millennium. But surgeons had to remove the organ, which had become necrotic, 99 days later. The first successful transplant was performed in 2011 — but even then, the recipient wasn’t immediately able to get pregnant and deliver a baby. It took three more years for the first person in the world with a transplanted uterus to give birth. 

More than 70 such babies have been born globally in the decade since. “It’s a complete new world,” said Giuliano Testa, chief of abdominal transplant at Baylor University Medical Center.

Almost a third of those babies — 22 and counting — have been born in Dallas at Baylor. On Thursday, Testa and his team published a major cohort study in JAMA analyzing the results from the program’s first 20 patients. All women were of reproductive age and had no uterus (most having been born without one), but had at least one functioning ovary. Most of the uteri came from living donors, but two came from deceased donors.

Fourteen women had successful transplants, all of whom were able to have at least one baby.  

“That success rate is extraordinary, and I want that to get out there,” said Liza Johannesson, the medical director of uterus transplants at Baylor, who works with Testa and co-authored the study. “We want this to be an option for all women out there that need it.”

Six patients had transplant failures, all within two weeks of the procedure. Part of the problem may have been a learning curve: The study initially included only 10 patients, and five of the six with failed transplants were in that first group. These were “technical” failures, Testa said, involving aspects of the surgery such as how surgeons connected the organ’s blood vessels, what material was used for sutures, and selecting a uterus that would work well in a transplant. 

The team saw only one transplant fail in the second group of 10 people, the researchers said. All 20 transplants took place between September 2016 and August 2019.

Only one other cohort study has previously been published on uterus transplants, in 2022. A Swedish team, which included Johannesson before she moved to Baylor, performed seven successful transplants out of nine attempts. Six women, including the first transplant recipient to ever deliver a baby back in 2014, gave birth.

“It’s hard to extract data from that, because they were the first ones that did it,” Johannesson said. “This is the first time we can actually see the safety and efficacy of this procedure properly.”

So far, the signs are good: High success rates for transplants and live births, safe and healthy children so far, and early signs that immunosuppressants — typically given to transplant recipients so their bodies don’t reject the new organ — may not cause long-term harm, the researchers said. (The uterine transplants are removed after recipients no longer need them to deliver children.) And the Baylor team has figured out how to identify the right uterus for transfer: It should be from a donor who has had a baby before, is premenopausal, and, of course, who matches the blood type of the recipient, Testa said...

“They’ve really embraced the idea of practicing improvement as you go along, to understand how to make this safer or more effective. And that’s reflected in the results,” said Jessica Walter, an assistant professor of reproductive endocrinology and infertility at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, who co-authored an editorial on the research in JAMA...

Walter was a skeptic herself when she first learned about uterine transplants. The procedure seemed invasive and complicated. But she did her fellowship training at Penn Medicine, home to one of just four programs in the U.S. doing uterine transplants. 

“The firsts — the first time the patient received a transplant, the first time she got her period after the transplant, the positive pregnancy test,” Walter said. “Immersing myself in the science, the patients, the practitioners, and researchers — it really changed my opinion that this is science, and this is an innovation like anything else.” ...

Many transgender women are hopeful that uterine transplants might someday be available for them, but it’s likely a far-off possibility. Scientists need to rewind and do animal studies on how a uterus might fare in a different “hormonal milieu” before doing any clinical trials of the procedure with trans people, Wagner said.

Among cisgender women, more long-term research is still needed on the donors, recipients, and the children they have, experts said.

“We want other centers to start up,” Johannesson said. “Our main goal is to publish all of our data, as much as we can.”"

-via Stat, August 16, 2024

[moontyger]

The U.S. seems only to understand pregnancy as a distinct and fragile state. For the expectant, we issue reams of proscriptions—more than can reasonably be followed. We tell them what to eat and what not to eat. We ask that they visit the doctor regularly and that they not do any strenuous activity. We give them our seats on the bus. Finally, once they’ve actually undergone the physical trauma of it, their bodies thoroughly depleted, we beckon them most immediately to rejoin the rest of us. One New York mother summed up her recent postpartum experience this way: ���You’re not hemorrhaging? OK, peace, see you later.”

The Chinese traditionally adhere to 30 days of restful confinement—another week for a C-section—during which time moms are meant to consume lactation-inducing soups and herbal tonics and abstain from sex and cold water. In Mexico, the ritualized interlude, or the cuarentena, goes for 40 days, or long enough for the womb to return to its place. Balinese women are not allowed to enter the kitchen until the baby’s cord stump has fallen. Dutch maternity nurses make postpartum visits every day for the eight days after childbirth, and in France, as elsewhere, new moms spend nearly a week in hospital.

Always, the mothers are educated as they convalesce; they’re taught to breast-feed, to manage baby rashes and bath time and sore nipples. Rarely are they first to respond to the infant’s shrieking. In 2011 I visited a luxury postpartum center in Taipei, where women of means (and who would rather not call on their mothers-in-law, as is custom) spend a month in recovery. When I asked Tsai Ya-hui, who had given birth to her first child three weeks earlier, what she did all day in her high-end suite, she answered: “Internet and sleep. That’s about it.” She looked more refreshed than I did.

There are elements of these postpartum practices (the consumption of foods rich in iron) that are common-sensical, and there are others (tightly wrapping the belly with a postnatal girdle; consuming distilled rice wine in place of water; extremely limited exposure to the sun in the first month), the usefulness and safety of which are debated by the medical community. But the thing to focus on here is the idea of a culturally recognized and accepted postpartum rest period. With these rituals comes an acknowledgment, familial and federal, that the woman needs relief more at this time than at any other—especially if she has a career to return to—and that it takes weeks, sometimes months, to properly heal from childbirth. An acknowledgement that overexertion after labor could lead to depression, infection, increased uterine bleeding, or prolapse. An acknowledgment that the postpartum stretch shouldn’t feel, as it did for so many of the American women who took part in my informal survey, like one long sleepless night.

“A culturally accepted postpartum period sends a powerful message that’s not being sent in this country,” said Dr. Margaret Howard, the director of the Day Hospital for Postpartum Depression in Providence, Rhode Island. “American mothers internalize the prevailing attitude—‘I should be able to handle this myself; women have babies every day’—and if they’re not up and functioning, they feel like there’s something wrong with them.” A colleague of Howard’s, the daughter of a pediatrician, brought her prepregnancy jeans to the delivery room, expecting to slip into them once the baby was out.

I spent part of an afternoon with some new mothers in Park Slope, an affluent Brooklyn neighborhood that is frequently and teasingly associated with over-the-top urban parenting. As a group, they’d received probably the best postpartum care that this country has to offer, which they detailed over the squeals and sighs of their nursing infants. Sophia Sotto had hired a postpartum doula, but didn’t feel comfortable “asking her to do the dishes in the sink.” She remembered: “I still couldn’t manage when to shower, when to eat.” Sarah Hake had an episiotomy and still, like every woman in America, was asked to come in for a 15-minute checkup six weeks after leaving the delivery room. “Six weeks is too late,” she said. The rest murmured their agreement.

All had cooked; all had cleaned. Asked Emily Lillywhite, “If you don’t get up and do it, who will?” One woman had taken an especially long walk two days after delivering, because she wanted to “feel normal again.” Most had been afraid to survey the wreck between their legs, and those who did look hadn’t been able to tell if they were healing well or not. “Google became my very good friend,” said Ruth Margolis. “Yes,” Sotto broke in. “Your postpartum support is the Internet.”

I heard stories of women vacuuming upon arriving home after a day and a half in the hospital; of new moms waiting until the six-week checkup to make their postnatal complications known; of visitors turning up and instantly asking for coffee; of lactation consultants who were meant to, but did not, take insurance; of a postpartum doula who, when she was summoned by a mother one month postlabor, said, “You’re too far along to need me.”

A popular site that advises women on how to find and work with a baby nurse counsels: “Ask your baby nurse what she likes to eat and stock up at the supermarket.” It is true that hiring a postpartum helper is far less expensive in, say, Hong Kong than in the U.S. But the problem is not one of money. The problem is that no one recognizes the new mother as a recuperating person, and she does not see herself as one. For the mourning or the injured, we will activate a meal tree. For the woman who is torturously fatigued, who has lost one 10th of her body’s blood supply, who can scarcely pee for the stitches running up her perineum, we will not.

[lyn31]

YOUR ZAYNE'S FIC ARE SOOO GOOOOOD. You cook so well😩. Now pretty please write MC in labor😩

I got carried away again as always..... but I like how it turn out! All this make me want to write about Zayne as dad now...... damn you guys! (read: Thank you) 🫶🏻😩

Oh and hopefully this is what you're thinking of! ✨🥹

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Labor

Summary

A quiet hospital room, the rhythmic beeping of a monitor, and a steady hand in yours. The tension lingers in the air—uncertainty, hope, fear—all colliding in the seconds before fate takes its course. And then, with a single breath, everything shifts.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader I'm no way near know what labor feel like, so I try my best!

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The hospital room is quiet, save for the steady beeping of the monitors and the occasional distant chatter from the hallway. The dim lighting casts everything in a soft glow, making the space feel cozier than it should—even with the sterile white walls and medical equipment surrounding you.

Zayne sits beside your bed, his ever-present clipboard in hand, reviewing something with a look of calm focus. He’s been like this for the past hour—checking notes, double-checking them, then checking them again, as if he personally intended to oversee every detail of your care.

You watch him for a moment before finally breaking the silence. “You know, for someone who isn’t my actual doctor, you sure look like one.”

His gaze lifts from the clipboard, cool and composed as ever. “I am a doctor.”

You snort. “Yeah, but not mine. You’re off-duty, remember?”

Zayne tilts his head slightly, a thoughtful hum leaving his lips before he counters smoothly, “Not yours?” He leans forward, resting an elbow on the bed as his cool fingers brush over your knuckles. “I seem to recall you calling me yours quite often.”

You narrow your eyes, catching the deliberate way he twists your words. “Oh, so we’re doing this now?”

His thumb brushes along your hand, his expression composed but undeniably pleased. “Doing what?”

You let out an amused huff. “Never mind.”

He doesn’t push, just holds your hand a little firmer, his touch steady. “Either way, I have no intention of being off-duty when it comes to you.”

You roll your eyes, squeezing his hand. “Wow, so controlling.”

His brow lifts. “I prefer ‘thorough.’”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Right, right. Thorough.”

There’s a beat of silence, a comfortable one, before Zayne shifts slightly, his eyes dropping to your belly. He’s been doing that a lot—watching, his expression unreadable but his touch careful every time he rests a hand there.

You follow his gaze, smiling softly. “Getting impatient?”

His thumb brushes against your skin absently. “I wouldn’t say impatient.” Then, after a pause, he adds, “Eager, perhaps.”

The honesty in his voice makes something in your chest tighten. You bite your lip, fighting back the sudden wave of emotion, and instead lean back against the pillows with an exaggerated sigh. “I swear, if this kid doesn’t come out soon, I’m charging rent.”

Zayne exhales a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm. “They do seem rather content staying where they are.”

“You think they’ll be as stubborn as you?” you tease, tilting your head toward him.

His gaze flickers toward you, amused. “I was going to ask if you thought they’d be as stubborn as you.”

You grin. “So, we’re both in trouble, then.”

Zayne hums, his fingers tracing absent patterns over your skin. He doesn’t say it, but you can see it in his eyes—the quiet anticipation, the depth of feeling he doesn’t always put into words. You feel it, too, this strange, overwhelming mix of excitement and nerves, the knowledge that any moment now, everything will change.

And then, as if on cue, there’s a sudden shift in your body—a pressure, a faint discomfort that makes your breath hitch.

You blink, startled.

Zayne immediately picks up on it. “What is it?”

You hesitate, then laugh lightly. “I think… my water just broke.”

His posture straightens in an instant, that calm, practiced focus settling over him. But you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten slightly around yours, or the flicker of something—something almost like nerves—that flashes through his expression before he reins it in.

“Well.” You exhale, shifting carefully. “Guess they finally decided to stop freeloading.”

Zayne’s lips press together in what might be a smile, but his gaze is already sharp, assessing. He reaches for the call button with his free hand. “Let’s not keep them waiting, then.”

The contractions start soon after, steadily intensifying with each passing minute. Nurses move in and out of the room, checking your vitals, monitoring the baby’s heart rate, and preparing everything for delivery. The air shifts—calm, but purposeful.

Zayne never leaves your side.

He holds your hand, his grip firm but careful, his other hand occasionally brushing over your forehead, pushing damp strands of hair back with cool fingertips. Every now and then, you hear the soft murmur of his voice—low, steady words of reassurance, though you barely process them between each wave of pain.

You squeeze his hand through another contraction, breathing through it as best as you can. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t complain, just lets you cling to him as tightly as you need.

When the pain eases slightly, you slump back against the pillows, exhaling a heavy breath. “You know, I’m starting to think we should’ve made a scheduled exit plan for this kid.”

Zayne huffs a quiet chuckle, though his eyes remain sharp, watchful. “That would’ve been ideal, yes.” His fingers smooth over your knuckles. “Unfortunately, they seem to have other plans.”

You groan. “Stubborn already.”

His lips twitch slightly. “Wonder where they get that from.”

You roll your eyes but don’t have the energy to fire back. Another contraction rolls through, sharper this time, stealing your breath. Your fingers tighten around his instinctively.

Your muscles seize, the pressure mounting unbearably. Each breath feels like dragging air through fire, your body fighting against itself in the desperate push forward. The contractions are relentless, but there’s no telling how much time has passed between them anymore. Minutes? Hours? It all blurs together, an endless cycle of pain and fleeting relief.

You gasp through another one, clinging to Zayne’s hand as your head slumps back against the pillows. Your limbs feel heavy, the exhaustion sinking into your bones, deeper than any mission injury you’ve had. For a brief moment, it feels like too much—like you can’t do this, like your body is failing you.

Your breath stutters. “I—” The words don’t come. You shake your head instead, a flicker of panic rising beneath the fatigue.

Zayne catches it instantly. His grip shifts, firm and grounding, his cool fingertips brushing against the back of your hand. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice steady, unwavering. He lifts your hand slightly, pressing his lips against your knuckles—a fleeting touch, but the warmth lingers. “You’re doing well.”

You force yourself to take a breath, then another. The haze doesn’t clear completely, but the panic eases—just a little.

You shake your head, barely able to get the words out. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you he’s there, solid and unwavering. “One breath at a time.”

The room is a blur—rushed voices, the steady beep of monitors, the sharp scent of antiseptic and sweat. You can hear the doctor saying something, the nurses murmuring encouragement, but it’s all distant, muffled under the sheer weight of everything happening to you.

And then—another contraction crashes into you, sharp and all-consuming. You barely register the way your body tightens in response, instinct taking over as the doctor’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Almost there.” he says, quiet but firm. “Just a little more.”

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours. His voice, cool and certain, is the only thing anchoring you as the final stretch begins.

You don’t know if it’s minutes or seconds, but when the next contraction comes, your body takes over. You push—every muscle screaming, every fiber of your being focused on this one thing.

And then—weightless relief.

A newborn’s cry pierces the room.

Everything that just happened crashes into you all at once. The pain, the exhaustion, the overwhelming sense of finally. You let out a shaky breath, your body trembling with the aftershocks, your vision swimming with unshed tears.

Zayne exhales slowly beside you, and when you turn your head, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are unreadable for a moment, as if even he needs a second to process that it’s over. Then, something shifts—something so quiet, so deeply felt that words aren’t needed.

His fingers brush your temple, the touch featherlight, reverent. Then you hear it again—the cry, small but strong.

The sound nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. A choked, startled sob bubbles in your throat before you can stop it, your body sagging against the bed. You barely register the movement around you—nurses bustling, hands moving quickly, a soft, wriggling weight being placed onto your chest.

Tiny. Warm. Yours.

Your hands tremble as you touch her, brushing over impossibly soft skin, feeling the rise and fall of her first breaths. Her cries settle slightly as she squirms against you, as if already seeking the comfort of your presence.

Zayne doesn’t say anything.

You turn your head toward him, and for the first time since this all started, you see something unguarded in his expression. He’s staring, utterly still, his gaze fixed on the baby in your arms like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her. For someone always so controlled, so certain, there’s a flicker of something else. Like he’s seeing something impossible. Something fragile and new, and undeniably real.

His fingers hover for a second, hesitation creeping into his movements that are usually precise. Then, finally, he lets them brush over the delicate curve of her head. The warmth is unfamiliar, delicate, alive in a way that almost doesn’t feel real.

The moment his fingertips graze her skin, his breath catches—so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Then, as if remembering himself, he exhales slowly, his touch impossibly gentle. The baby shifts under his fingers, a tiny movement—barely anything at all. And yet, something in his expression tightens, a flicker of something deep and unreadable settling in his gaze.

For once, there’s an almost imperceptible delay in his movements, as if he’s afraid the smallest touch might shatter the moment.

It’s quiet between you, even as the room hums with movement. The weight of everything lingers, exhaustion, awe—something too deep to put into words.

Zayne leans in slightly, pressing a cool, lingering kiss to your temple.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely a whisper, yet it carries more weight than any grand declaration ever could.

The relief washes over you, but it’s tinged with something strange—a lightness in your limbs that doesn’t quite feel right. You blink, trying to shake it off, but the room swims slightly at the edges.

You turn toward him just as another wave of lightheadedness washes over you.

It’s subtle at first, a sudden wave of dizziness, sharp enough to make your grip falter, but then your vision blurs slightly at the edges. Your grip on the baby weakens for just a second—not enough to be dangerous, but Zayne notices immediately.

Immediately, his head lifts. His gaze sharpens. “What is it?”

You swallow, blinking hard. “I—” Your tongue feels thick and sluggish, like your body is struggling to keep up. “Feel weird.”

His hand is already at your wrist, checking your pulse. A second later, he glances at the monitors, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly.

“Get a blood pressure reading,” he orders, his voice cool, controlled.

A nurse moves quickly, wrapping the cuff around your arm. The numbers flash across the screen—too low.

Her expression shifts. “Her pressure is dropping.”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. “Call the attending. Now.”

The room shifts instantly. Nurses move in taking your daughter away, adjusting IVs, lifting your hospital gown to check the monitors. Words blur together—blood pressure instability, excessive bleeding, immediate intervention.

Then—cool fingers brush your cheek.

“Stay awake.”

Zayne’s voice. Steady. Firm.

You blink up at him, trying to ground yourself. “M’not going anywhere,” you mutter, attempting a smirk. It’s weak.

His fingers linger for half a second before he pulls back. His gaze flickers toward the attending nurse as she steps in, then back to you. “It’ll be alright.”

It’s not a reassurance. It’s a certainty.

The attending doctor barely spares him a glance before issuing instructions. “We need to stabilize her before we proceed. Doctor Li, I need you to step out.”

You feel him stiffen beside you.

His grip on your hand doesn’t tighten, but you feel the hesitation, the way he lingers for just a second too long, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he exhales, his grip loosening like letting go is a battle within itself. He nods.

His fingers brush over your wrist one last time before he pulls away.

“I’ll be right outside,” he murmurs.

And then, for the first time since this all started—he’s gone. The space he leaves behind is too cold, too empty.

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The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

Zayne stands just outside the door, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared in that composed, unshakable way that gives nothing away. From a distance, he looks like a man simply waiting—patient, motionless, his breathing even. But up close, the cracks are there.

His grip is tight—so tight his knuckles press white against his skin. His shoulders don’t relax, don’t shift, as if held in place by sheer force of will. And then, after a long moment, his fingers uncurl, his hands drop to his sides. He exhales slowly through his nose, a measured breath that does nothing to ease the tension gripping him.

Still, the tension lingers, wound tight in his chest. And then—without thinking—he moves.

His back touches the wall first, cool against the tension coiled in his muscles. Then he lowers himself into a crouch, forearms resting loosely over his knees. He doesn’t bow his head—doesn’t close his eyes. He just waits, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, unmoving.

Minutes stretch. Nurses pass by, but no one stops him.

Eventually, a different nurse approaches, speaking in a quieter voice, like she knows she’s interrupting something unspoken.

"Dr. Li, your daughter has been moved to the nursery," she informs him. "She’s doing well. She responds quickly, no signs of distress—breathing is steady, vitals are stable."

Zayne listens, absorbing each detail without a single wasted motion.

"Is she warm enough?" His voice is steady, measured. A doctor’s question—but something else lingers beneath it, quieter. Something almost hesitant.

"Yes," the nurse assures. "She’s in an incubator for now, just for monitoring, but everything looks good."

He nods. "And her blood oxygen levels?"

"Normalizing well."

Another nod. His expression doesn’t change, but his fingers twitch slightly against his knee. He exhales through his nose—measured, controlled. He has his answers. His daughter is being taken care of.

Still, he doesn’t move.

The nurse hesitates, then glances toward the closed door beside him. "Your wife should be waking up soon."

He knows. That’s why he’s still here.

The nurse doesn’t press further. She just offers a polite nod before walking off, leaving him alone in the hallway once more.

And when the door finally opens, when a different nurse steps out and says, "Doctor Li?"—he’s already standing before she finishes his name, walking inside the room.

The door clicks shut behind him, but he doesn’t move right away.

For a moment—just a moment—he stands there, gaze settling on you. A flicker of something crosses his face—not relief, not entirely. His fingers twitch, just slightly.

You’re propped up against the pillows, the soft glow of the monitors casting shadows across your face. There’s exhaustion written in every inch of you, but your eyes are open, meeting his—awake, breathing. Present.

His shoulders shift, a tension he’s been holding finally loosening—just slightly.

Then, slowly, he exhales, a quiet breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Only then does he step forward.

He moves to touch you, then hesitates—just for a second. His gaze lingers, tracing the IV line, the faint tremor in your fingers where they rest against the sheets. When he does touch you, it’s careful, as if making sure you won’t disappear beneath his fingertips. His thumb presses slightly against your wrist—a quiet reassurance. A confirmation.

"You were waiting," you murmur, voice hoarse, the words threading through the rawness in your throat. You shift slightly—just enough for the sheets to rustle—but even that small movement leaves you breathless for a second. His fingers shift slightly against your wrist, like he notices.

His lips press together faintly—not quite a frown, but not neutral either. "Of course."

You huff a tired breath, tilting your head just a little. "And our daughter?"

"She's in the nursery," he answers immediately, his voice steady. "The nurses assured me she's stable—no complications."

A slow, relieved exhale leaves your lips.

Zayne watches you, his gaze flickering over every detail—the way your fingers twitch weakly against the blanket, how you start to lift your hand but let it fall back to the sheets, your breath just a fraction uneven. He knows you’re alright now, you’re awake. You’re here.

His hand moves, fingers trailing up until they settle against your cheek. His touch is cool, grounding, and when you lean into it—just barely—his thumb skims over your skin in a slow, absent motion.

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You wake slowly, warmth pressing against your side, the rhythmic sound of beeping monitors lulling you into awareness. It takes a second to register everything—the hospital room, the soft weight of blankets over you, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.

Your body feels different than before—less exhausted, though a dull soreness still lingers, like a distant ache instead of the overwhelming fatigue from the first day. Manageable. Easier.

And then, you hear it.

A quiet, steady voice murmurs something too soft to make out.

You blink your eyes open, the room still dimmed by the evening light filtering through the blinds. And there, sitting beside the hospital bed, is Zayne.

He leans forward slightly, adjusting the tiny bundle in his arms—your daughter, cradled carefully in his hands. His voice is quiet, patient, as if he’s explaining something to her, even though she’s far too small to understand.

You don’t move at first, just watching. It’s rare to catch him like this—settled, no longer on edge, his focus entirely on her. His usually sharp gaze softens, tracing over every tiny feature as if memorizing her all over again.

You don’t know why you expected him to overthink this. The man analyzes data for a living, after all. But somehow, fatherhood has come to him as naturally as breathing—each movement careful but sure, each touch precise yet gentle. No hesitation, no uncertainty, just a calm, measured certainty in every move he makes. And yet, it’s not clinical. There’s something soft in the way he holds her, something instinctive. Natural.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m not sure she’s ready to appreciate the commentary just yet.”

Zayne’s head lifts immediately, sharp instincts ever-present, but this time, he doesn’t tense. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m talking in my sleep.”

His gaze flickers over your face, checking—because of course he is—but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he exhales, slow and quiet, before glancing back down at the baby. “She was fussing earlier.”

You shift, pushing yourself up slightly, but before you can get far, Zayne is already moving. One hand settles gently against your back, supporting you as he adjusts the pillows with practiced ease.

You give him a look. “You know, I did survive before you started micromanaging me.”

“And yet, here you are, letting me,” he murmurs, completely unbothered as he smooths the blanket over your legs.

You huff, but there’s no real bite behind it—because, well, he’s right.

His fingers brush over your wrist, lingering just long enough to check your temperature, before his gaze flickers to the baby. “You should feed her now.”

You glance at your daughter, her tiny fists barely peeking out from the blanket. “You’re giving her back just like that? Thought you’d keep hogging her.”

Zayne doesn’t react immediately, but the corner of his mouth twitches—slightly. “She does seem comfortable with me.”

“She’s a newborn, Zayne. She can’t even tell you apart from a blanket yet.”

He hums, clearly not convinced, but still, he shifts forward, carefully placing the baby in your arms. His movements are precise, ensuring she’s supported properly, as if she might shatter under anything less.

Once you’ve settled, he watches closely, like he’s analyzing every part of the process, committing it to memory.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to supervise the entire thing, aren’t you?”

His gaze meets yours, unblinking. “Obviously.”

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it, tired but genuine. “You really are fussing.”

Zayne doesn’t deny it. Instead, he reaches over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with precise care. “You just woke up. Someone has to.”

And, well—he’s got you there.

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Notes:

Zayne as Dad is live rent free in my head now...... also I watch one of those video where everyone is literally fussing the baby and the dad is just waiting outside of the mom's room, like "why is my wife not out yet" it was so cute 🥹 so ofc I have to use it as well 🫶🏻😩 This is ended up connected ahaha either way, if we're going for chronological order here it is: (this is part 4) more like a snippet (smut) part 0 part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 (smut at the end)

[mayfriend]

UPDATE: Mother of five (one newborn) in Gaza without shelter or food! (Vetted)

At the start of November, I made a post about Samira (@samiraaymaan) and her family in Gaza — Samira has had her baby, a little boy, but all the money raised so far had to go towards getting her a caesarean section.

Now Samira is once again without funds to feed her children or herself -- as of today (22nd December 2024), Samira hasn't eaten in three days, and is too weak to breastfeed her newborn -- and the occupation forces are demanding that the starving family must leave where they are currently sheltering due to the ongoing shelling in Nuseirat in order to survive.

Samira and her family urgently need support. Since I posted the last time, we managed to raise 2k for Samira and her family, and got Samira 10% closer to her goal, money which helped save Samira's life and that of her newborn baby boy: now the two of them, plus Samira's four other children, are relying on us again.

It is in no way fair that Samira is not able to rest or eat or recover from childbirth, or that she is forced to reach out to strangers on the Internet in the hopes of even the slightest relief, but it's what is happening.

I know it is Christmas soon, I know that things are tight for many people, but if watching an ongoing genocide for over a year has been exhausting, demoralising and soul-destroying for those of us lucky enough to live in safety, it is impossible to overstate the impact of those actually in Gaza experiencing it.

Please, if you have even $5 USD or equivalent to spare, consider sending it to Samira so she and her children can escape the latest round of bombings, buy flour so they can eat, get a tent to shelter in and raise funds for future evacuation.

I'm not sure what else to say, but please. Please. As Samira said to me: "what else is there to say? [We are] dying from cold, hunger and pain." If there was ever a moment for action, this is it.

The link to Samira's gofundme is here. At time of writing, it is at just over $5k ($5,022 on the 22nd December 2024) but again, all that money has been withdrawn to pay for Samira's caesarean section. She is starting from scratch!

If you are able to donate at all, please do, but if not reblogging this post and sharing the fundraiser with those who are able to spare something is still a great help and something everyone can do.

Thank you so much for caring about Samira and her children ❤️

[a-reyy]

Billy Batson has access to the memories of previous champions, and some of them are woman. I think that sometimes he forgets he’s a man and just drops comments like these:

At the watchtower:

Dinah who is currently on her period: God my cramps hurt.

Billy who was a mother in a previous life: When you Ollie decide to have a kid it’ll feel like nothing, I promise.

Dinah who’s confused: what?

Billy:…You know, compared to the pain of childbirth, cramps are nothing. I speak from experience.

Dinah even more confused: You speak from experience?

Billy: Yeah, you should have seen my little Simon, he was so cute…Too bad he’s dead now.

Dinah: Why did you say that so casually?

Billy: It was thousands of years ago, plus he died of old age so I’m at peace with his death.

Dinah:…I’m gonna go now.

Billy: Bye bye :)

[cuties-in-codices]

nero giving birth to a toad

illustration from a copy of the "weltchronik" ("chronicle of the world") by rudolf von ems, bavaria, c. 1400-1410

source: Getty Museum Collection, Ms. 33 (88.MP.70), fol. 226r

[odinsblog]

In her final hours, Amber Nicole Thurman suffered from a grave infection that her suburban Atlanta hospital was well-equipped to treat.

She’d taken abortion pills and encountered a rare complication; she had not expelled all of the fetal tissue from her body. She showed up at Piedmont Henry Hospital in need of a routine procedure to clear it from her uterus, called a dilation and curettage, or D&C.

But just that summer, her state had made performing the procedure a felony, with few exceptions. Any doctor who violated the new Georgia law could be prosecuted and face up to a decade in prison.

Thurman waited in pain in a hospital bed, worried about what would happen to her 6-year-old son, as doctors monitored her infection spreading, her blood pressure sinking and her organs beginning to fail.

It took 20 hours for doctors to finally operate. By then, it was too late.

(continue reading)

[hellfire435678]

Somebody find the rest of this video please!

[cherryberrysthings]

I wanna be a good little breeding doll. Fuck me till I'm stuffed with your seeds. Keep fucking me until you are sure I'm pregnant.

And once i give birth to your baby, stuff me up again.

My purpose is bearing children and giving birth to them. Put me in my place so that I can fulfill my purpose and bring men pleasure

[reasonsforhope]

"When Ellen Kaphamtengo felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen, she thought she might be in labour. It was the ninth month of her first pregnancy and she wasn’t taking any chances. With the help of her mother, the 18-year-old climbed on to a motorcycle taxi and rushed to a hospital in Malawi’s capital, Lilongwe, a 20-minute ride away.

At the Area 25 health centre, they told her it was a false alarm and took her to the maternity ward. But things escalated quickly when a routine ultrasound revealed that her baby was much smaller than expected for her pregnancy stage, which can cause asphyxia – a condition that limits blood flow and oxygen to the baby.

In Malawi, about 19 out of 1,000 babies die during delivery or in the first month of life. Birth asphyxia is a leading cause of neonatal mortality in the country, and can mean newborns suffering brain damage, with long-term effects including developmental delays and cerebral palsy.

Doctors reclassified Kaphamtengo, who had been anticipating a normal delivery, as a high-risk patient. Using AI-enabled foetal monitoring software, further testing found that the baby’s heart rate was dropping. A stress test showed that the baby would not survive labour.

The hospital’s head of maternal care, Chikondi Chiweza, knew she had less than 30 minutes to deliver Kaphamtengo’s baby by caesarean section. Having delivered thousands of babies at some of the busiest public hospitals in the city, she was familiar with how quickly a baby’s odds of survival can change during labour.

Chiweza, who delivered Kaphamtengo’s baby in good health, says the foetal monitoring programme has been a gamechanger for deliveries at the hospital.

“[In Kaphamtengo’s case], we would have only discovered what we did either later on, or with the baby as a stillbirth,” she says.

The software, donated by the childbirth safety technology company PeriGen through a partnership with Malawi’s health ministry and Texas children’s hospital, tracks the baby’s vital signs during labour, giving clinicians early warning of any abnormalities. Since they began using it three years ago, the number of stillbirths and neonatal deaths at the centre has fallen by 82%. It is the only hospital in the country using the technology.

“The time around delivery is the most dangerous for mother and baby,” says Jeffrey Wilkinson, an obstetrician with Texas children’s hospital, who is leading the programme. “You can prevent most deaths by making sure the baby is safe during the delivery process.”

The AI monitoring system needs less time, equipment and fewer skilled staff than traditional foetal monitoring methods, which is critical in hospitals in low-income countries such as Malawi, which face severe shortages of health workers. Regular foetal observation often relies on doctors performing periodic checks, meaning that critical information can be missed during intervals, while AI-supported programs do continuous, real-time monitoring. Traditional checks also require physicians to interpret raw data from various devices, which can be time consuming and subject to error.

Area 25’s maternity ward handles about 8,000 deliveries a year with a team of around 80 midwives and doctors. While only about 10% are trained to perform traditional electronic monitoring, most can use the AI software to detect anomalies, so doctors are aware of any riskier or more complex births. Hospital staff also say that using AI has standardised important aspects of maternity care at the clinic, such as interpretations on foetal wellbeing and decisions on when to intervene.

Kaphamtengo, who is excited to be a new mother, believes the doctor’s interventions may have saved her baby’s life. “They were able to discover that my baby was distressed early enough to act,” she says, holding her son, Justice.

Doctors at the hospital hope to see the technology introduced in other hospitals in Malawi, and across Africa.

“AI technology is being used in many fields, and saving babies’ lives should not be an exception,” says Chiweza. “It can really bridge the gap in the quality of care that underserved populations can access.”"

-via The Guardian, December 6, 2024

[rubie392]

One Difficult Arrival

Hey guys, While I've enjoyed RPing with those who've reached out I've decided to write up a story let me know if you guys enjoy it and if you'd love to read more:

The contraction began slowly, creeping up from deep within her abdomen, but within seconds it became an overwhelming force, one that demanded every ounce of energy Layla had left. She gritted her teeth, her hands gripping the sides of the pool as she bent forward, her body trembling. She could feel the baby—still sunny side up, still stubbornly high—pressing against her cervix, but the sensation was different now. It wasn’t the smooth, rhythmic pressure she had anticipated. It was jagged and intense, like the baby was caught on something, refusing to move past the narrow confines of her pelvis. Her breath quickened, the sharp, painful waves of the contraction sweeping over her, and she felt a bead of sweat drip down her forehead and into the water.

Sofia was right beside her, her hands placed gently on Layla’s lower back, guiding her through the contraction. “Deep breath, Layla. Relax your shoulders, just breathe,” Sofia murmured, her voice a steadying presence amidst the chaos of the moment. Maya, standing at the edge of the pool, was monitoring the fetal heart rate. “We’re okay,” she said softly, though her eyes never left the screen. “Let’s take this one step at a time.” Layla felt a deep sigh of relief at hearing those words. She could do this. She had to.

The contraction peaked, and Layla’s body demanded that she push. She sucked in a deep breath, feeling the pressure building in her pelvis, the sensation intensifying, a deep, unyielding force that made her body want to move on instinct. “Now, Layla. Push as you breathe out,” Sofia instructed. Layla closed her eyes and, with all the might she could summon, pushed down into the water, trying to force the baby to move, to descend. Her abdominal muscles contracted violently, her body straining with the effort. She groaned deeply, feeling the burn as her muscles stretched, a deep, raw pressure in her pelvis.

The baby’s head didn’t budge. The sensation of trying to push the baby past the pubic bone felt like she was pushing against a wall, an unyielding barrier that refused to relent. Layla cried out, her voice hoarse with exertion, and sweat dripped down her neck. “It’s okay, Layla,” Sofia reassured her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Keep going. You’re doing amazing.” But as Layla pushed again, she could feel the baby’s head just barely shifting, a slow, excruciating movement that was more of a tease than any kind of progress. She felt the baby’s position, still sunny side up, pulling painfully on her perineum.

With another deep breath, Layla bore down once more. This time, the sensation was sharper, a deeper burn as the baby’s head stretched her further. “It’s coming, Layla,” Maya said, her voice tense but hopeful. Layla’s muscles burned, and the sweat clung to her skin, but she didn’t stop. Her body pushed against the contractions with everything it had, determined to free her child from the depths of her body.

Another push. This one felt different—stronger, more deliberate. Her pelvis seemed to widen ever so slightly, and Layla could feel the baby’s head moving, inching just a bit further down the birth canal. The pressure intensified, and Layla let out a ragged breath, feeling as though she was giving every ounce of energy she had left into the effort. The head hadn’t emerged completely, but she could feel the first visible signs: the slight bulge in her perineum, the stretch of skin. Her body was beginning to give way under the sheer force of the contractions, but the baby’s head remained stubbornly lodged behind the pubic bone, as if refusing to let go.

Sofia’s voice broke through the haze of pain. “You’re getting so close, Layla. Just a little longer. Focus. Breathe.”

Layla’s teeth clenched as she pushed again, the overwhelming sensation of fullness, of pressure, intensifying as the baby’s head shifted slightly further. It was as though time had slowed, each second stretching out in unbearable agony. She could feel every inch of the baby’s head, the pressure in her pelvis, and the relentless burning sensation that came with trying to move it. The baby was still sunny side up—its face presenting first—and the strain of that position made every push a challenge, each one requiring more force than the last.

Her body screamed for relief, but there was no reprieve—no rest in sight. The contraction hadn’t waned, and the pain from each push seemed to build upon the last. Layla’s breath was ragged, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she pushed once more, the effort seemingly futile as the baby’s head remained so close, yet still so far. Her entire body shuddered with the force of the push, her legs shaking, but there was no turning back.

The second contraction hit quickly, her body not giving her a moment to catch her breath before the wave of pressure began to build again. Layla’s entire body clenched as if the earth itself was pulling her down, urging her to push. The sweat on her brow mingled with the cool water that surrounded her, making her feel like she was being pulled under, but she knew that this was no time for weakness. She focused on the pain, the tension, the overwhelming force surging through her—there was no turning back now.

Sofia was right by her side, her gentle hands pressing against Layla’s back, steadying her as she felt the next contraction begin. “Deep breaths, Layla. In and out. Remember, you’re in control,” Sofia’s voice remained calm, even though Layla could see the strain on her face. Every woman in the room knew that this was becoming a battle of endurance. The baby was stubbornly high, the head just beneath the pubic bone, and the sunny side-up presentation only complicated things. Still, the team held onto hope that each push would bring them closer to bringing this baby into the world.

Layla’s breath hitched as the pressure continued to build, spreading like wildfire from her pelvis up through her stomach. Her legs were trembling beneath her, but she was determined to push through the exhaustion. “Push, Layla. Push like you’ve never pushed before,” Maya’s voice rang out, authoritative but laced with encouragement. Her eyes were locked on the fetal heart monitor, watching the baby’s heart rate as it fluctuated with each wave of pain.

Layla inhaled deeply, trying to center herself, then pushed with all the strength she could muster. The muscles in her abdomen tightened painfully, her pelvis burning as the baby’s head remained stubbornly lodged. She could feel it now, the distinct pressure of the baby’s head slowly moving, but it was agonizingly slow, a mere shift of millimeters at a time. With each push, the sensation felt like a war, every inch harder to claim. She could feel the baby’s head pressing against her cervix, stretching it wider, and with the added complication of the sunny side-up position, the angle was more extreme than she’d anticipated. The baby’s skull scraped against the bone, sending waves of stinging pain through her body, but she had no choice but to continue.

Sofia’s voice cut through the agony, her words soft but strong. “You’re doing so well. Keep going, Layla. It’s moving.” There was something in her tone that anchored Layla, that gave her the strength to push again. The burn in her pelvis intensified with the force of the contraction, the sensation of her perineum stretching wider. The baby’s head still hadn’t moved past the pubic bone, but it was as if Layla could feel it inching forward, every push inching them closer to a moment of release.

Layla let out a cry as the contraction peaked, the force of the push so intense that her body seemed to buckle under it. Her throat burned as she let out a guttural scream, her hands gripping the sides of the pool as if it were her lifeline. The world around her seemed to blur, every sense focused on the singular task of pushing her baby out. The pain, the stretch, the pressure—each one reached a new level of intensity with each push. The baby’s head was now visible at the opening of her birth canal, but it remained half-buried, its progress painfully slow. It was the kind of slow that seemed endless, and each second felt like an eternity.

Thomas’s hand found Layla’s, his touch tender and steady amidst the chaos. His eyes were filled with love, but the worry in them was impossible to miss. “You’re doing great, Layla,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. His words were a comfort, even though she could barely focus on anything beyond the pressure in her pelvis. She squeezed his hand in response, a silent acknowledgment that she was still there, still fighting through the excruciating pain.

The burn in her perineum seemed to stretch even further as the baby’s head remained wedged behind the pubic bone. “We need a bit more,” Maya said, adjusting her stance and preparing for the next step if this push didn’t succeed. The team watched with bated breath, their hearts in their throats, but Layla wasn’t ready to stop. She clenched her jaw and, with the next wave of the contraction, pushed again. This time, there was a shift—a slight movement, enough to send a small ripple of hope through the room. But the baby’s head was still not fully out, the stretch continuing to feel like a tearing pain, as though her very body was being pulled apart.

Sofia’s soothing words once again found their way to Layla’s ears. “You’re getting so close, Layla. Keep breathing, keep pushing. You’ve got this.” But each push seemed to carry the weight of an entire lifetime. Layla’s breath was heavy, labored, her body trembling from the sheer force of the effort. Every inch was hard-won, but she refused to give up. Each time she pushed, she felt the baby’s head shift just a bit, but the final release still felt out of reach.

The contraction arrived without warning, its force greater than the last. Layla’s body screamed in protest, every muscle in her abdomen tight, a coil of tension that left her breathless. The moment it hit, she instinctively bent forward again, her back arched, the pressure in her pelvis so strong that it felt as if she might break apart at the seams. Sweat poured down her face and neck, her skin glistening under the harsh lights of the room. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of the labor, and yet there was no relief in sight.

Her hands gripped the edges of the pool tightly, her knuckles white, as she fought against the unbearable pressure. She had to push. There was no option. With each passing moment, the pain grew, and she could feel the weight of the baby pressing lower and lower in her birth canal. It was as though the baby was slowly but surely carving its way down, yet still not quite there. Her body, aching with exhaustion, begged for rest, but there was none to be had. Not yet.

Sofia’s voice was a soft, steady reassurance as she knelt beside Layla, her hands resting lightly on her back. “I know this is hard, but you’re doing incredible, Layla. One more push, just like we practiced.” Layla’s chest heaved with every breath, the steady rhythm of her pulse pounding in her ears. The moment the contraction reached its peak, she leaned into it, her body tensing as she pushed once again.

Her legs, shaking from the weight of her labor, felt as though they might give way beneath her. Every muscle in her body screamed for relief as she bore down with everything she had. Her perineum burned as the baby’s head pressed against it, the sensation familiar now, the stretching, the resistance, but it still felt raw—like a battle being fought at the very core of her body. She let out a scream, guttural and primal, as she tried to push the baby’s head free, but there was nothing. The baby’s head remained wedged just behind the pubic bone, despite all the effort.

“Just a little more, Layla. You’re so close,” Maya encouraged, her voice tight with concentration as she watched the fetal heart monitor. The baby’s heart rate was fluctuating, and the urgency of the moment pressed against the edges of the room. Layla’s eyes squeezed shut as she pushed again, the sensation of pressure radiating out from her pelvis like a firestorm.

Thomas’s presence beside her was quiet but constant, his hand gripping hers with a steady, comforting pressure. His gaze lingered on her face, his eyes soft, but there was something else in them—something Layla couldn’t fully place. She didn’t have the energy to question it, too consumed by the tidal wave of sensation crashing over her. His words were gentle, soft against the backdrop of the chaos. “You’re amazing, Layla. So strong.” There was a moment where she thought she could hear a slight tremor in his voice, but she didn’t focus on it. She had no time for anything but the task ahead.

The contraction came again, and this time, Layla felt something change. The baby shifted, just a fraction of an inch, and for the first time, the head began to move downward, slowly inching its way past the pubic bone. The burn in her perineum flared up, each millimeter of progress feeling like an eternity. She gasped for air, her body wracked with another push. She focused on the task at hand, gritting her teeth as she felt the baby’s head continue its journey downward.

The sensation was both overwhelming and strange—like her body was being pulled in every direction, yet she was powerless to stop it. The warmth of the water around her provided little relief; the only thing that mattered now was the baby’s head, inching closer, ever so slowly. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she squeezed Thomas’s hand once again, the action as much for reassurance as for strength.

“Good job, Layla,” Sofia murmured, her voice still calm, a lifeline in the storm. “You’re making progress. Keep going, one more push.”

Layla nodded, pushing again, trying to find the strength to finish what she’d started. The room felt smaller, the air thick with her breath and the tension of the moment. As her body fought against the baby’s position—still sunny side up, still stubborn—she pushed with everything she had. The baby’s head was so close now. She could feel it, almost there, but it wasn’t enough. The sensation was a fierce battle of forces—her muscles straining, her body fighting to stretch and release the baby.

Another push. Another scream. The room held its breath as Layla’s body wracked with effort, her voice echoing in the small, sterile space. And still, the head didn’t emerge. It was right there, so close, but not yet. Layla’s body quivered, fatigue threatening to overtake her as she gasped for air.

Thomas’s fingers tightened around hers, his eyes locked on her face with an intensity that almost seemed out of place in the chaos of the moment. His quiet words were almost drowned out by the noise, but Layla could hear them, the murmur that seemed to carry with it something else, something that unsettled her, but she was too focused on the task at hand to dwell on it. “I’m so proud of you. You’re incredible,” he whispered, but there was something deeper, something that Layla didn’t have the energy to dissect.

With one final push, Layla’s body surged, and the head shifted—finally. It was a tiny movement, but it was enough. The burn, the stretch, the pressure—it all reached its peak as the head began to crown, the fullness spreading across her perineum. This was it. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

The moment of the next contraction hit like a crashing wave, a deep, primal force that shook Layla's entire body. She could feel it building from the depths of her pelvis, the pressure surging through her abdomen, intensifying, relentless. It wasn’t the steady, bearable intensity of previous contractions—it was something much more suffocating. Her entire body seemed to rebel against it, muscles locking in tension as she tried, and failed, to breathe through the overwhelming surge of pressure.

Layla could feel her legs trembling beneath her, the warm water of the birthing pool no longer offering relief, the soothing effect long gone. Her position had been shifted again—now, she was leaning forward, supported by the midwives as she knelt in the water, her face grimacing in concentration and pain. Sofia stood at her side, keeping her steady, but it was hard to hold herself up under the weight of the contraction, let alone the sensation of the baby’s head still stuck just behind the pubic bone.

The pool had seemed like an oasis at first—its warm water was meant to help relax and ease the tension, but now, it felt almost suffocating, like an enclosure she couldn’t escape from. The water sloshed around her as she shifted with each push, but the sensation was more like being trapped in a pressure chamber. Her body felt swollen, heavy, as though the water was adding to the weight of the contraction, making it feel as if the walls of her pelvis were being pushed to their limits. There was no sense of relief, only suffocating pressure and the overwhelming urge to push, yet no progress.

Each time she tried to push, it felt like she was facing an insurmountable barrier. The head was there, but it was wedged in place, stubbornly refusing to move despite her best efforts. The feeling of the baby pressing against her pelvis was agonizing—a deep, burning stretch that made her want to scream, yet all she could do was gasp for breath, trying to keep her body under control. The longer the baby stayed there, stuck, the more her body fought against the natural urge to push, exhausted from the effort.

“Layla,” Maya’s voice broke through, her tone calm but urgent. “We need to change positions again. We’re going to try something different to get this baby moving. Let’s get you on the stool.”

Layla didn't want to move—she was so exhausted, her body spent from hours of labor. But she knew there was no choice. The pool had failed to help the baby descend, and now, the team was trying to find any way possible to make progress. The midwives worked quickly, lifting her from the water. Her legs were like jelly, too weak to support her own weight, and she had to rely on them to help her sit on the birthing stool. The cold air hit her skin as she was transferred, the contrast to the warm water stark and jarring. She shuddered, her body protesting the change, but there was no time to dwell on it. The contraction was coming again, and Layla could feel it building rapidly.

The stool was unforgiving—hard, uncomfortable, and in many ways, it felt like it was adding to her discomfort. Her legs were splayed, her back arched slightly, and though the position allowed gravity to assist, it also intensified the pressure. There was no relief in this position, only a raw, unyielding burn between her legs as she tried to focus, trying to ignore the fatigue that was threatening to consume her. Each contraction left her more depleted, her body trembling, her heart rate escalating as she fought to stay calm.

She could feel the medical equipment around her—the fetal monitor beeping steadily in the background, the sound of the Doppler echoing through the room, reminding her of the urgency of the situation. The sterile smell of the room was overwhelming now, the antiseptic scent mixing with the intensity of the labor, a constant reminder that she was in a medical space where anything could happen.

Maya and Sofia stood beside her, their hands gently guiding her through each contraction, offering words of reassurance, but they were also watching the monitors closely, assessing the baby’s position and heart rate. There was an air of quiet intensity in the room as the midwives and doctors worked quickly, focused on the task at hand. Esther was positioned at the foot of the stool, monitoring the baby’s descent with a practiced eye. Layla could feel all of their gazes on her, the weight of their attention both a comfort and an additional source of pressure.

“Push, Layla,” Sofia encouraged, her voice a mixture of compassion and urgency. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

Layla’s breath hitched, but she obeyed, bearing down with everything she had left. The pressure in her pelvis surged again, even more intense than before. It was like her entire body was being stretched in all directions at once. Her skin burned with the sensation of the baby’s head, still lodged just behind the pubic bone, refusing to budge despite her best efforts. She felt the overwhelming tightness in her pelvic floor, the muscles straining, each push taking everything she had left.

Her body was drenched in sweat, the effort causing her to tremble uncontrollably. Her face was flushed, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Each push felt like it was only making the pressure worse, the burning more intense, as if her body couldn’t stretch any further. Her perineum ached with the strain of it, and she could feel the unmistakable sensation of tearing just beneath the surface. Yet, despite the agony, she continued to push, each push harder and more desperate than the last. She could hear the encouraging words from the team, but it all felt so far away, the sounds muffled by the roar of pain that filled her senses.

“Keep going, Layla,” Maya said, her voice cutting through the haze of pain. “We’re almost there. You’re doing great.”

But it didn’t feel like she was doing great. It felt like her body was failing her, like she couldn’t get past the barrier of the baby’s head, which seemed wedged in place no matter how hard she pushed. The sensation of it, the pressure, the unrelenting burn—it was becoming unbearable, and Layla’s strength was waning. Her arms were weak, her legs trembling, and yet she couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. There was no other choice.

But the head remained stubbornly in place, a constant reminder of the struggle she was enduring. The feeling of being trapped, the inability to make any headway, left her feeling raw and vulnerable. It was a battle of endurance now—pushing through the pain, holding on to the hope that soon, the baby would finally move, that she would finally meet her child.

The contraction came with a force that made Layla’s body quake. She barely had time to brace herself before it hit, a crushing weight of pressure that took her breath away. The baby's head remained lodged, still stuck behind the pubic bone, and Layla could feel every inch of her body straining against it. The previous pushes had been exhausting, and now, her body was starting to protest, each push taking more energy than the last.

The room seemed to close in on her, the harsh fluorescent lights flickering above, casting sharp shadows across the walls. The fetal monitor beeped steadily, but the occasional dip in the baby’s heart rate kept everyone on edge. There was a quiet urgency in the air, though Layla could barely focus on anything but the overwhelming pressure in her pelvis and the ache in her perineum. Her body was shaking, drenched in sweat, and the exhaustion was starting to cloud her thoughts. She wanted to rest, but the contraction came again, and with it, the instinct to push, even though she had nothing left to give.

“Layla,” Maya’s voice broke through her fog of pain. “We’re going to try using forceps to assist with the delivery. You’re doing great, but we need to get this baby out.”

Layla barely registered the words, her mind too clouded by the agony of each contraction. She knew what forceps were—a tool used to help guide the baby out when the birth wasn’t progressing. But the thought of another intervention, another procedure, felt like one more thing she wasn’t prepared for. The panic started to rise in her chest, but she swallowed it down, too focused on the task at hand.

Maya and Aaliyah worked quickly, donning gloves and preparing the forceps. The metal tools gleamed under the lights, their cold, sterile presence reminding Layla of just how far this had gone from a natural birth. The team was moving efficiently, but the tension in the room was palpable. Sofia stayed by Layla’s side, her hand rubbing Layla’s back in a soothing motion, trying to calm her, though she could feel the increasing tension in her body.

“Layla, I need you to focus,” Maya instructed, kneeling in front of her, her voice steady but firm. “We’re going to use the forceps to help guide the baby. You’ll feel some pressure, but it should help with the delivery.”

Layla nodded weakly, but all she could do was focus on the contraction, the pain, the pressure. She gripped the sides of the stool with white knuckles as another contraction swept through her, pushing the baby down just a little more, but still, the head wouldn’t emerge fully. It felt like she was fighting against the very core of her own body, each contraction intensifying the burn.

With a deep breath, Layla bore down again. The pressure was nearly unbearable now, the baby’s head still stuck, wedged between her pelvis and the opening of her vagina. Maya carefully positioned the forceps, feeling for the right angle. “Okay, Layla, I’m going to apply pressure now. This may feel a bit more intense, but we need to help the baby’s head move.”

Layla’s body seized as the forceps were placed, the sharp, cold sensation sending a jolt of shock through her already overstretched tissues. She gasped, her entire body trembling with the effort to continue pushing as the pressure from the forceps joined with the relentless contraction. Her legs trembled beneath her, and her breathing became shallow, frantic. Despite the combined efforts of the tools and her own pushing, the baby’s head didn’t budge.

“I don’t think it’s moving,” Aaliyah murmured, her voice tinged with concern.

Maya’s brows furrowed. “We need to stop for a moment and reassess. Layla, we need you to rest for a second, okay? You’re pushing too hard.”

But Layla couldn’t rest. The instinct to push was too strong, too deep within her. Her body fought against the cessation, her legs trembling violently as the next contraction hit. She let out a strangled scream, her chest heaving with the effort to push. But still, the head did not emerge. The forceps had provided no relief—only a momentary feeling of intrusion, a physical reminder of how much she was struggling.

Her body began to degrade under the strain. Her pulse was elevated, her skin clammy, a sheen of sweat covering her entire body. The heart rate of the baby, once steady, now dipped dangerously low with each failed push, the fetal monitor alerting everyone to the growing concern. Layla’s vision blurred as the exhaustion set in—her face pale, her breathing rapid and shallow. She could hear them speaking in hushed tones around her, but it all felt distant. The effort to stay present, to keep pushing, was becoming more difficult by the second.

“Layla,” Esther said gently, kneeling beside her. “You need to take a break, okay? Just breathe. We’re not giving up on you.”

But Layla could barely focus on the words. The pressure, the pain, the sheer effort of trying to bring her baby into the world—everything was starting to feel like a blur. She was no longer sure how much more of this she could take. The weight of the situation began to sink in—her health was deteriorating. Her pulse was rapid, her blood pressure elevated. She could feel the exhaustion creeping into her bones, and though the team was doing everything they could to help, Layla began to fear that something might be wrong. The thought of needing more drastic intervention loomed, but for now, they all held their breath, hoping the next push would be the one to finally bring relief.

The room was thick with tension as the team, now fully aware of the urgency of the situation, moved swiftly but methodically. Layla’s body was wracked with exhaustion, her skin pale, her face drawn with the pain and effort that had been building for hours. Her pulse quickened, her breathing shallow and rapid as the next contraction started to take hold of her. She gripped the sides of the birthing stool with all her remaining strength, her knuckles white and trembling.

Sofia stood beside her, whispering words of encouragement, but the noise of the machines, the beeping of the fetal monitor, and the hurried conversation between the medical team filled the air. Layla barely registered the words. All she could focus on was the overwhelming pressure in her pelvis, the deep burning sensation that seemed to swallow everything around her. The baby's head remained stubbornly stuck, not moving, despite her constant pushing and the use of the forceps in previous attempts.

Maya, who had been watching the monitors closely, exchanged a glance with Aaliyah, her brow furrowed in concern. "The baby’s heart rate is dipping again," Maya said quietly. "We need to try again with the forceps. Layla, we’re going to do everything we can to get your baby out."

Layla nodded weakly, but her mind was clouded with fatigue. The idea of another attempt with the forceps felt overwhelming. She could hear the soft clicking of the sterile metal as the team readied the tool, the cold steel a stark contrast to her own burning skin. Her legs were trembling, her muscles fatigued beyond belief, and every fiber of her being wanted to give in to the exhaustion that threatened to overtake her.

Aaliyah gently placed her hand on Layla’s shoulder, her voice calm but firm. "Layla, we need you to focus. We’re going to give it another try. Just a little longer. You’re doing great."

Layla barely heard her. All she could focus on was the sensation of the contraction surging through her again, an unstoppable wave of pressure that forced her to push. This time, she wasn’t sure if it was instinct or desperation, but she pushed with everything she had left in her. Her body screamed in protest, but she did it anyway, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The forceps were inserted again, and Layla flinched at the cold sensation, her body stiffening as the medical team worked to position the tool.

"Ready, Layla?" Maya’s voice was close, urgent. "On the next push, we need you to give everything you’ve got."

Layla nodded again, but she could barely hear her own thoughts over the overwhelming noise of the world around her. The pressure in her pelvis was unbearable, a deep, searing pain that seemed to radiate through every part of her body. She gripped the stool harder, her fingers aching, and as the next contraction built, she bore down, feeling the burn and stretch as the forceps were pulled with increasing force.

The room held its breath as the forceps pulled, the metal clinking softly as they worked, but despite the effort, the baby’s head refused to move. The pressure built, and Layla could feel her perineum stretching painfully as they continued the failed attempt. The forceps, though firmly grasping the baby’s head, seemed unable to make any progress.

"Come on, come on," Aaliyah murmured, watching closely as the pressure mounted. But even as the forceps pulled with all their might, the baby’s head remained lodged just behind the pubic bone. Layla cried out, her body trembling violently under the strain, but the baby’s progress was still stalled.

The frustration in the room was palpable. Layla’s breathing became erratic, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to summon the strength for another push, but it felt as though the effort was all for nothing. The forceps had failed again. The baby’s heart rate dipped again, and the monitors began to beep urgently. A sense of panic started to rise, but the team moved quickly, communicating in short, sharp commands. Layla’s legs were shaking violently, and she felt as though she were on the verge of collapse.

"We need to stop for a moment," Maya said, stepping back from the stool. She looked at Aaliyah and Macy, exchanging a look of concern. "This is taking a toll on her body. We may need to consider another approach if this doesn’t work."

Layla, her body screaming for rest, could feel her strength waning. Her vision blurred, the edges of the room softening as dizziness began to set in. The contraction had subsided, leaving only a deep, aching pressure in her pelvis. She could feel the weight of everything—her exhaustion, the pressure, the growing concern for her baby—and she wanted to scream in frustration, to push the weight of it all away, but she couldn’t.

Esther leaned in close, her hand on Layla’s arm. "Just breathe, Layla. We’re not giving up. We’ll get through this."

But Layla wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep going. Each push, each failed attempt, was wearing her down further, and the worry about her baby’s heart rate—the uncertainty of whether they would be able to safely deliver—was beginning to weigh heavily on her heart.

The room was filled with the hum of medical equipment, the steady beep of the fetal monitor echoing in the background. Layla’s exhaustion was palpable; her body was shaking from the relentless hours of labor, and every breath seemed to require more effort than the last. Sweat clung to her skin, her chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. Her hands were gripping the sides of the birthing stool so tightly that her knuckles were turning white, and her entire body trembled with the effort it took just to remain upright.

The team had been working tirelessly, trying to move the baby down through the birth canal, but despite their best efforts, the baby’s head remained stuck, face up, the large skull pressing painfully against Layla’s pelvis. Maya, standing at the front of Layla’s stool, kept her eyes on the fetal monitor, watching the fluctuations in the baby’s heart rate with a sharp, focused expression. It had dipped a few moments ago, a clear sign that the baby was under some distress.

"Layla, we’re going to try using the vacuum to help guide the baby out," Maya explained, her voice calm but laced with urgency. "This will help us get the baby’s head past the pubic bone."

Layla barely had the energy to nod, her mind a blur from exhaustion, the pain, and the fear of what was to come. The room seemed to close in around her, the sterile smell of antiseptic mixing with the natural scent of sweat and blood. The air felt thick, and Layla’s body felt as though it were no longer her own. She felt the hands of the team working around her, adjusting her legs, preparing the vacuum extractor.

Esther was positioned behind her, ready to offer support, her hand resting gently on Layla’s lower back. "We’re here with you, Layla," Esther whispered softly. "Just focus on your breath. You’re doing great."

Despite her reassuring words, Esther could feel the tension in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. This was no longer just a routine delivery. The team was now facing serious complications. Layla’s fatigue was evident in the way her shoulders sagged, and the way her grip on the stool was growing weaker. But there was no turning back now.

Aaliyah stood at Layla’s side, her hands steady as she guided the vacuum extractor into place. She glanced at Maya, a silent exchange of concern passing between them. The vacuum was a tool they had hoped to avoid, but with the baby’s head so firmly wedged, they had no other option. The tension in the room was thick as the medical team prepared to try once more.

"Layla, I need you to push as hard as you can on the next contraction," Maya instructed. "The vacuum will help pull the baby’s head forward, but we need you to push to make it work."

Layla’s chest heaved as the contraction began to build. She felt the familiar tightening in her abdomen, the wave of pressure that surged down through her pelvis. Her mind screamed at her to push, to give everything she had left, but her body felt like it was on fire. The effort was agonizing, and yet, there was no choice but to obey.

"Push, Layla!" Maya called, her voice firm, but laced with concern. "We need this to work."

Layla’s body tensed as she bore down, her vision blurring, her teeth gritting against the pressure that felt like it was going to tear her in two. The vacuum extractor was in place now, and Layla could feel the cold pressure of the cup against her perineum. Her breath hitched, and her heart pounded in her chest. The pull of the vacuum was immediate, a strong, mechanical force that tugged against her body. She cried out, the pain of the contraction mingling with the pressure from the extractor.

The vacuum pulled, but there was no movement. Layla’s body screamed with effort, her skin drenched in sweat, but the baby’s head remained lodged. The tension in the room grew palpable as the medical team worked in silence, adjusting their positions, trying once more.

"Again, Layla," Maya urged. "Another push. We can do this."

But even as Layla pushed with everything she had, the result was the same. The vacuum had no more effect. The baby’s head was still stuck, and the clock was ticking. Layla’s breath was shallow, her body trembling with exhaustion, and the heart monitor beeped steadily, but the dips in the baby’s heart rate were becoming more frequent.

"Okay," Maya said, her voice steady but with an edge of urgency. "We’re going to take a step back. We need to reconsider our options."

The tension in the room didn’t lift, but the team continued to work, discussing what to do next. Layla, unable to speak, felt the weight of their worry settle over her like a heavy blanket. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather what little strength she had left.

The labor room had shifted in tone, the earlier sense of optimism now replaced by the weight of exhaustion. Layla's body had already endured hours of intense contractions, and every inch of progress felt like a monumental victory, but the end was still elusive. The baby’s head remained stubbornly lodged, and the team, though experienced, had begun to grow concerned. The bright fluorescent lights overhead seemed harsher now, their cold light reflecting off the sterile surfaces of the room.

Layla, drenched in sweat, had long ago lost track of time. She was no longer able to keep her eyes open, her body fatigued from the constant onslaught of contractions, each one feeling more intense than the last. The pain had shifted from a sharp, biting sensation to a deep, heavy ache that seemed to settle into her bones. Her body felt swollen and worn out, her muscles sore from the exertion of pushing.

As the medical team discussed the next steps, Layla’s partner, Thomas, stood at her side, his hand holding hers with a firm but trembling grip. The worry on his face was clear—his usual calm demeanor replaced by visible anxiety. He had been trying to keep it together, but the reality of the situation was starting to wear on him too. He felt utterly helpless in this moment, knowing there was little he could do but be present and supportive for Layla.

"How are you feeling, love?" he asked, his voice soft, his thumb gently rubbing the back of her hand.

Layla's breath hitched as she tried to respond, but the words didn’t come out clearly. She was too tired, her throat dry and sore from the effort of pushing and the constant, rhythmic groaning of labor. She closed her eyes briefly, sinking into the moment of respite, even as her body continued to pulse with the contractions.

"It’s... it’s hard," she finally managed to rasp. "But I can’t stop."

Thomas squeezed her hand tighter, leaning in close, whispering comforting words that she could barely register. He had seen the strength in her before, but this was something different. This was the raw vulnerability of a woman nearing her limits, and it tore at him.

The room was warm, the temperature rising as Layla’s body temperature fluctuated with the strain of each contraction. Her legs trembled uncontrollably as the pressure in her pelvis intensified. At one point, a sudden, involuntary release of fluid spilled onto the bed beneath her—a mixture of sweat, amniotic fluid, and blood. Layla felt embarrassed by it, but the team reassured her, focusing on the task at hand.

"Don’t worry about that," Aaliyah, the nurse, said gently. "It’s completely natural. You’re doing great. We're just going to move you to a different position now."

Layla nodded, too exhausted to speak, and allowed herself to be repositioned. They needed to change things up—her body was too worn out from the previous attempts, and her baby’s position was still a challenge.

Thomas moved to her other side to support her as she was carefully assisted into a new position, this time sitting on the edge of the bed. The nurses and doctors worked quickly, adjusting her legs, propping up her torso, and ensuring she was stable. The new position allowed gravity to help, but the discomfort was palpable. Layla felt the unfamiliar pressure on her hips as she adjusted, her legs heavy and aching from hours of effort. She felt vulnerable in this moment, but Thomas stayed close, wrapping an arm around her waist to offer support.

"Layla, we’re going to try a new position," Macy, one of the attending physicians, said. "This will help open your pelvis more, and gravity can assist in moving the baby down. But if you feel uncomfortable at any point, let us know."

Layla nodded faintly, her body trembling. She felt the cold rush of the air conditioner against her sweat-covered skin, and the shift in position brought a new wave of sensations. As she rested her head on Thomas's shoulder, she felt a deep, throbbing ache between her legs, where the baby still refused to descend. The feeling of her body straining with each contraction was overwhelming.

The medical team continued to monitor the baby’s heart rate, the beeping of the fetal monitor now more insistent, showing slight dips with each contraction. Layla’s body was close to its breaking point, but she was determined. Thomas’s presence was the only anchor she had left. He whispered words of encouragement, though he could tell she was drifting into a state of emotional exhaustion.

"I love you," he said softly. "You’re doing an amazing job, Layla. Just a little more. You’ve got this."

She squeezed his hand weakly, grateful for his support, but it didn’t change the reality of the situation. Her body had been through so much, and each moment felt like an eternity. Yet, despite the overwhelming sensations, the pressure in her body, and the raw vulnerability she felt, she couldn’t stop. Not yet.

As the medical team moved to prepare for the next step, the room shifted again. The air was thick with anticipation, but also with the raw reality of the labor process—the reality of a woman’s body at the brink, and the efforts of a team trying to bring life into the world while managing the complexities that arose.

Layla’s body had reached its breaking point, and every muscle felt like it was on fire as the eighth contraction hit. The medical team had shifted their focus once more, realizing that they needed to take more direct action to help Layla bring her baby into the world. Despite the hours of labor, the baby’s head had yet to fully emerge, remaining lodged behind her pubic bone. The stress in the room was palpable—time was running out, and there was no denying the need for a more hands-on approach.

Maya and Aaliyah, both seasoned midwives, exchanged a quick look. They knew that while interventions could be helpful, they also carried risks, and they had to tread carefully. They had been guiding Layla through every step of the labor, but now, their roles were shifting. It was clear that they would need to use their hands to help bring the baby’s head out.

"Layla, we’re going to need to use our hands to assist with the delivery," Maya explained in a calm, yet firm tone. "We’re going to work gently to help guide the baby down. I know it’s uncomfortable, but we’re here with you."

Layla, whose eyes were barely open from exhaustion, nodded in acknowledgment, though the overwhelming sensation of the contractions made it difficult to process much more. The warmth of the room, combined with the sharp pain, created a sense of disorientation that Layla couldn’t escape. She felt trapped in her own body, but Thomas was still there, holding her hand tightly, providing the only solid anchor in this storm of pain.

"Just breathe, love," Thomas whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He stroked her hair, trying to offer comfort in the only way he knew how. His gaze flickered to the medical team, watching as they moved with a sense of urgency, but also with compassion, knowing the delicate nature of what needed to be done.

The pressure on Layla’s body intensified as she was instructed to push again. She did so with what little strength remained in her, but it wasn’t enough. The baby’s head, still facing upward, wasn’t coming down any further. Layla’s body screamed for rest, but the reality was that they needed to keep moving forward.

As Layla lay back against the pillows, the midwives gently guided her legs apart and positioned themselves at the foot of the bed. With surgical gloves on, they both took their places, each one carefully examining the baby’s position. Layla’s body reacted immediately to the touch, the sensations a mix of pressure, discomfort, and the deep, overwhelming ache of labor.

Maya placed her hands on Layla’s pelvic region, carefully feeling the baby’s head. She gently manipulated the area, trying to coax the baby’s head to rotate and descend into the birth canal. Layla gasped as she felt the sensation of hands inside her, a pressure that was hard to describe but impossible to ignore. It wasn’t the kind of relief she had hoped for—it was another level of discomfort, but she tried to breathe through it.

"Stay with us, Layla," Aaliyah encouraged, her voice soft but firm. "You’re doing great. We’re almost there."

Thomas, who had been trying to stay calm, could see the effort on Layla’s face. The strain in her eyes, the beads of sweat clinging to her skin, and the deep groans of effort were a constant reminder of how much this process was taking from her. He gripped her hand tighter, his thumb tracing circles over her palm, offering as much comfort as he could.

"One more push, Layla," Maya instructed. "We need to get that head out."

Layla nodded weakly, taking in a shaky breath. She could feel the intensity of the contraction starting to build again, the pressure in her pelvis and lower back reaching a new high. She couldn’t hold back the groan of discomfort that escaped her throat. This wasn’t the birth she had imagined. It wasn’t peaceful, it wasn’t serene—everything felt out of her control, and her body was being stretched in ways she couldn’t have prepared for.

With a deep breath, Layla bore down, her body instinctively pushing despite her exhaustion. She felt the world narrow to just the overwhelming pressure between her legs, the sensation of hands inside her guiding her baby down.

The team worked in unison, each of them moving with skill and precision, but the reality was that they were not in control. They could guide, they could support, but they couldn’t do it all. The head did not emerge as quickly as they hoped. Maya worked her fingers gently but firmly against Layla’s perineum, feeling the baby’s skull press against the delicate tissue. The sensation was intense—painful, yet necessary.

Layla cried out, her body trembling with the strain of the push. "It’s so hard," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I know, Layla," Thomas responded, his voice thick with emotion. "I know. You’re doing amazing."

The next few moments felt endless. Maya continued to gently manipulate the baby’s head, trying to get it to rotate into a better position. Aaliyah monitored the fetal heart rate, which remained steady but began to dip slightly, a signal that they needed to move faster. The weight of the situation hung heavily in the room.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the baby’s head shifted slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. The medical team exchanged looks of cautious optimism, knowing they were close, but still needing to be careful.

Layla’s body was spent. Every inch of her felt like it was on fire as she lay back, her hands gripping the sides of the bed in desperation. She had long ago lost track of time, the pain blending into a singular, relentless wave that surged through her with each passing contraction. The room was heavy with the tension of the moment, the only sounds coming from the soft beeping of the fetal monitor and the steady breath of the medical team, who were now focused on her with a singular purpose.

Maya and Aaliyah, the midwives who had been with Layla through this entire journey, exchanged a look that spoke volumes. They were running out of options. Every position, every push, every intervention had failed to bring the baby’s head down fully. The baby’s position, facing up, had caused additional difficulty, making each attempt at delivery more painful for Layla and more complicated for the team.

The time had come for them to make a decision. "Layla," Maya said gently, her voice calm but urgent, "We need to perform an episiotomy to help get the baby out. It will relieve some of the pressure and help with the positioning."

Layla’s heart raced at the thought of another intervention, but she had no energy left to argue. The pain was unrelenting, and she trusted the team who had been guiding her through this entire ordeal. She nodded weakly, squeezing Thomas’s hand tightly as he stayed by her side, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of physical sensation.

Thomas looked down at her, his face filled with concern, but also with deep love and admiration for the strength she had shown. "I’m right here, Layla," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re doing incredible. We’re almost there."

Layla barely registered his words. All she could focus on was the overwhelming pressure between her legs as the contraction surged once more. She gritted her teeth and bore down, her body responding automatically to the urge, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough this time. They needed to help her.

Aaliyah stepped forward, preparing the necessary tools. "We’re going to make a small cut to help the baby move down," she explained, her hands steady and experienced as she prepped for the procedure. The room was tense, the air thick with anticipation, as the midwives moved with practiced efficiency.

Maya gently explained the next steps to Layla, her hands resting on Layla’s thighs to offer some comfort. "This will help stretch the area around the baby’s head and allow us to guide it more easily. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s necessary."

As Layla bore down, Maya carefully began the procedure, the cold sharpness of the surgical scissors a stark contrast to the heat of the moment. Layla gasped at the sting, the sensation strange but not as sharp as she expected, overshadowed by the endless pressure and burning in her pelvis. Thomas’s face tightened as he watched, but he squeezed her hand again, offering all the comfort he could.

The cut was small, but it allowed Maya to begin guiding the baby’s head with her hands, carefully working to stretch the perineum and allow more room for the baby to emerge. Layla’s body responded with a deep groan as she pushed again, this time with the assistance of the midwives’ skilled hands. The tension was excruciating, and the pain intensified as the baby’s head still refused to move past the pubic bone.

"Almost there, Layla," Aaliyah said quietly, her voice calm but filled with encouragement. "You’re doing great."

Thomas’s grip tightened around Layla’s hand, his heart breaking at the rawness of the experience. He wanted to take the pain away, but all he could do was be there for her, supporting her through every excruciating moment.

Layla’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling from the effort, but she knew she was close. The sound of the fetal monitor continued to beep steadily, but there was a slight dip in the baby’s heart rate, a reminder that they had to act quickly.

"One more push, Layla," Maya said firmly. "Let’s do this together."

Layla took a deep breath, bracing herself for the next wave of pain. As the contraction built, she pushed with every ounce of energy she had left, the pressure in her pelvis more intense than ever before. Despite the midwives’ efforts, the baby’s head still didn’t budge, and the tension in the room was palpable. The air felt thick with the weight of the moment, every second counting.

Layla's breath was ragged, her body trembling under the weight of the final stretch. The room, once filled with the chaos of ongoing interventions, had now become a quiet space of focused intensity. The team had been working tirelessly for hours, their determination unwavering, but it was clear to everyone that they were nearing the final moments. Thomas had not left Layla’s side, his face a mixture of concern, exhaustion, and admiration. He watched her, helpless yet amazed at her strength, knowing that with each push, she was one step closer to meeting their baby.

"You're doing it, Layla," Thomas whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He squeezed her hand, offering her as much comfort as he could. The tension in the room was palpable as the contraction built, and Layla's body responded automatically, her muscles contracting as she prepared for the final push.

"One more, Layla," Maya said softly, her hands gently supporting Layla’s thighs. "This is it. You’re almost there. We just need one more big push."

Layla’s eyes fluttered open, her face pale and slick with sweat. Her body was spent, each wave of pain pushing her to the edge of her endurance. She could feel the baby’s head stuck, still refusing to emerge despite their best efforts. But she could also feel the warmth of the support around her—the team who had never given up, the father whose eyes never strayed from her. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the final effort.

"This time, Layla, it’s all you," Aaliyah said, her voice gentle but full of conviction. "We’re right here with you."

Layla nodded weakly, her eyes locking with Thomas’s, who gave her a reassuring smile. She felt the pressure building again, the urge to push so intense that it was impossible to ignore. She gritted her teeth and bore down with everything she had, the strain of it so deep in her pelvis it felt as though she was being pulled apart. The team was ready, their hands steady, prepared to guide her through the final step.

The pressure in her body reached a breaking point as the next contraction slammed into her. Maya, with a steady hand, repositioned herself at the perineum, feeling the tightness around the baby’s head. "You’re doing great, Layla. Keep pushing," she encouraged.

Thomas could see the exhaustion in her face, the sweat dripping down her temples. He could feel the raw strength in the way she gripped his hand, the way she fought through each wave of pain. He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, his voice barely a whisper. "I love you, Layla. I’m so proud of you."

In that moment, Layla gathered every last bit of strength she had. The room seemed to fade around her, the noise and the urgency replaced by a single focus: bringing their baby into the world. She took another deep breath, feeling the contraction build, and with a final, powerful push, her body did what it had been trying to do for so long. The head began to crown, the relief almost immediate. There was a sense of accomplishment in the air, as the team worked in perfect unison, guiding the baby’s head as it slowly, painfully emerged.

Layla’s breath caught as she felt the baby’s head finally pass through. The tension, the pressure, the pain—it all seemed to lift for a moment. Maya’s voice rang out with a sense of triumph. "The head is out, Layla! You did it!"

For a brief moment, Layla could hardly believe it. Her body, trembling with exhaustion, had brought them this far. The baby’s head was finally free, and the rest of the body was so close. The team moved quickly but gently, making sure Layla remained comfortable. Thomas was by her side, his face filled with awe as the baby’s cries filled the room.

Layla collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down her face, a mixture of relief and disbelief. She felt the baby being gently moved, and in a blur of motion, she heard the sound of a soft, wailing cry. The room was filled with that sound, that unmistakable noise that told them the baby had arrived.

"It’s a boy!" Macy said, her voice full of joy and relief.

Layla turned her head toward Thomas, her eyes wide, filled with wonder. She could see the tears in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. "We did it, Layla. We did it together."

The room seemed to exhale in unison, the weight of the past hours lifting. Layla could hardly believe it, but the small, warm body that was placed on her chest told her everything she needed to know. The baby, wet and wriggling, was here. The pain, the struggle, the countless hours of labor—all of it had led to this moment.

She looked down at the little one, the relief flooding through her in waves. She had done it. And though her body ached and the exhaustion was overwhelming, she couldn’t help but smile. The baby was finally here, and the journey—though difficult—had ended in the most beautiful way possible.

Layla’s body was a battleground. Every muscle in her was taut, straining with effort, while the deep, gnawing exhaustion began to take its toll. The room was filled with the collective focus of the medical team and the quiet, rhythmic beeping of the fetal monitor in the background. Every inch of Layla’s skin felt as though it were on fire, slick with sweat, the weight of her body bearing down with each wave of pressure. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each contraction making it harder to breathe, but there was no turning back now.

Thomas’s hand was tightly clasped around hers, his grip a steady anchor in the storm of sensation that had enveloped her for what felt like a lifetime. She could feel his anxious eyes on her, his quiet murmurs of encouragement barely reaching her ears over the pounding in her head. "You’re so strong, Layla," he whispered. "Just one more, you’re almost there."

The baby’s head had been in the birth canal for what felt like an eternity, and though the pressure was unbearable, Layla knew it was the final hurdle. She could feel the baby lodged just behind her pubic bone, refusing to descend. She had pushed countless times before, each push leaving her body trembling with the effort, but this time was different. This time, the head needed to crown.

Maya, positioned at the foot of the bed, moved closer, her voice soft yet firm. "Layla, we’re so close. I know it’s been hard, but you’re almost there. When the next contraction comes, I want you to push as hard as you can. We need the head to move forward."

Layla nodded weakly, her exhaustion evident in every inch of her face. Her body, already weary from hours of labor, trembled with the strain of the contraction. The pain was no longer just a sensation—it was a presence, a constant force that pressed against her from all sides. As the contraction began to build, Layla’s focus narrowed. She could feel the baby moving, shifting ever so slightly, but the head remained firmly lodged.

"This is it, Layla," Aaliyah said, crouching beside her. "We need to get the head out now. Push as hard as you can."

The next contraction surged through her body, an insistent wave of pressure that made her feel as though she might split in two. Layla took a deep breath, summoning every last ounce of energy. Her whole body braced for the push, her legs shaking as she pressed her heels into the bed for leverage. With a scream, Layla pushed, the muscles in her abdomen tightening with the force of it. The pressure deepened, sharp and excruciating, as though her entire body was being pulled toward the surface of the earth. She could feel the head inching forward, but it wasn’t enough.

"Come on, Layla, just a little more," Thomas urged, his voice barely audible above the sound of her grunts. He squeezed her hand tighter, his face a mask of concern, unable to ease the pain but offering his presence as a lifeline.

The team watched closely, their eyes trained on the slow, excruciating progress. The baby’s head had barely begun to crown, but Layla could feel the stretching of her perineum, the burning as her skin strained to accommodate the size of her baby’s skull. The pressure felt unbearable, and yet, it was also the sign that she was nearing the end. Each push seemed to bring her closer to the moment she had dreamed of for so long.

"Good, Layla, keep going," Macy encouraged from behind her. "You’re doing great, we’re almost there."

The next push came with even more intensity. Layla’s scream of effort filled the room, mingling with the sounds of the fetal monitor and the low murmur of the medical team. The baby’s head shifted, but it was stubborn, resisting the movement. Layla could feel the head pressing down, the sensation of it stretching her more and more. The team’s voices were a blur in the background, only the steady, reassuring touch of Thomas’s hand bringing her back to the present.

"Just a little more, Layla," Maya said, her voice calm and steady despite the tension in the room. "You’re so close, just one more push and we’ll have the head out."

Layla’s body, slick with sweat, was shaking uncontrollably now. Every part of her screamed with exhaustion, but she had no choice. She had to keep going. The head was so close now, and she couldn’t stop now, not when she was so near the end.

With a final, guttural cry, Layla bore down once more. Her entire body shook with the intensity of the push, the pressure in her pelvis and perineum so overwhelming that she couldn’t distinguish between the pain and the need to get this baby out. She could feel the head slipping downward, but it wasn’t quite enough. Another contraction racked her body, and she pushed again. This time, she could feel it—just the faintest give in the resistance. The baby’s head was moving, just barely, but it was moving.

"Yes, Layla, yes!" Thomas cried, his voice full of pride and relief. "Keep going, baby, keep going!"

But despite her best efforts, the head remained just shy of crowning, as if it too were reluctant to leave the safety of the womb. Layla’s breathing was ragged, each breath a struggle as the contraction came to an end. The pressure was almost unbearable. She was so close, yet so far away. But she had no choice but to continue.

The room had become tense with anticipation, but Layla’s strength was beginning to waver. Her body, now drenched in sweat and trembling from the relentless pressure of the contractions, was exhausted from hours of pushing. She had come so far, but the baby’s head had yet to emerge, and the effort was taking its toll on her both physically and emotionally. Thomas remained at her side, his hand firm around hers, offering whatever support he could, though his face was clouded with concern.

Maya, ever the calming presence, watched the fetal monitor closely. The baby’s heart rate, once stable, had begun to show signs of distress. It wasn’t unusual, but it was a reminder of how delicate the situation had become. Layla’s heart raced, not only from the pain but from the realization that she might not be in control of the situation much longer.

A sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere occurred when Sofia, positioned at the foot of the bed, made a soft but urgent observation. “The cord… it’s wrapped around the baby’s neck,” she said quietly but firmly. “We need to address this immediately.”

The room fell silent as the medical team’s attention sharpened. The umbilical cord, which was essential for providing oxygen to the baby during labor, had become looped tightly around the neck. While this wasn’t uncommon, it required immediate action to prevent fetal distress. A quick decision was made to release the cord before proceeding with the final stage of delivery.

“Layla, we need you to push again,” Maya said gently, her voice full of assurance. “We’re just going to move the baby’s head slightly so we can safely remove the cord. It’s important that we do this right now, so stay focused. We’ve got this.”

Layla’s head was spinning, and the pain from her body’s efforts to bring the baby into the world was overwhelming. But she understood the urgency. She had no choice but to push through, the pressure mounting as the baby’s head descended slowly, agonizingly. She bore down once more, her body responding to the instinctual need to push, even as she fought against the tidal wave of exhaustion.

With a delicate yet firm touch, Sofia’s hands moved expertly to gently lift the baby’s head, allowing her to carefully unloop the cord from around the neck. It wasn’t an easy task; the cord was tight, and it resisted their efforts. But after a few tense moments, the cord was freed, and the baby’s heart rate began to stabilize. The worry that had been etched on the team’s faces began to lift slightly.

“Good job, Layla,” Aaliyah said softly, her hands gently massaging Layla’s legs to help her relax. “We’re almost there. You’re doing amazing.”

Layla’s breath, which had been shallow and erratic, began to slow as her body found a brief moment of relief. The room was filled with the quiet but urgent sounds of the medical staff working together, each member of the team fully aware of the critical nature of what had just occurred. The pressure of the moment didn’t escape Layla; she understood that the fight wasn’t over yet, and the final push was still ahead.

In the background, Esther and Macy, both ready with equipment for the final moments of the delivery, prepared to assist. The fetal monitor showed that the baby’s heart rate was stabilizing, a small but hopeful sign that the baby was responding well to the intervention.

As the minutes passed, the physical toll on Layla became more evident. The contractions were coming faster now, each one more intense than the last. Her body had been working for hours, pushing through wave after wave of pain. But with the cord no longer restricting the baby’s oxygen flow, the team was hopeful that they would soon see the results of Layla’s unwavering determination.

The mood shifted slightly; while the room was still filled with tension, there was a palpable sense of cautious optimism. “You’re so close, Layla,” Thomas murmured, his voice tight. “Just one more push. I know you can do this.”

Layla, still feeling the weight of the exhaustion, closed her eyes for a moment. She focused on her breath and on the warmth of Thomas’s hand in hers. She needed one final surge of strength, one more push to bring the baby into the world.

The midwife, Maya, moved to the foot of the bed, her hands ready to assist if needed. The team was prepared for the final stages, knowing that the delicate balance of pressure and precision would be crucial for a safe and successful delivery. With a steady voice, she spoke again to Layla. “When you feel the next contraction, I need you to push with everything you have left. We’ll support you, but this is it.”

The room was thick with the tension of an impending conclusion, but the team wasn’t prepared for the complication that would unfold next. Layla, drenched in sweat, was barely hanging on to her strength. Her body ached, her breath ragged as she struggled to find the energy to push once more. After hours of labor, the baby’s head was finally delivered, but the team quickly realized that the journey was far from over.

As the baby’s head emerged, there was a moment of stillness, followed by an increasing sense of urgency among the medical team. Layla’s heart skipped a beat when she heard the concerned murmur of the midwives and doctors.

“It’s shoulder dystocia,” Sofia whispered, her voice calm yet firm, as she adjusted her position at the foot of the bed, preparing to assist further.

Shoulder dystocia occurs when the baby’s shoulder becomes stuck behind the mother’s pelvic bone after the head is delivered. This is a rare but serious obstetric emergency that requires quick and precise actions to ensure the baby is safely delivered. It can lead to complications for both the baby and the birthing person if not handled appropriately.

Maya, who had been guiding Layla through each stage of the labor, quickly assessed the situation. “We need to move fast. Layla, we’re going to help guide the baby’s shoulders through. You’re doing amazing, but we need you to stay focused.”

The room buzzed with coordinated action as the medical team moved swiftly to execute maneuvers that could safely resolve the shoulder dystocia. The first step was a series of positional changes for Layla, intended to shift the baby’s body in a way that would allow the shoulders to be freed.

“Layla, we’re going to try the McRoberts maneuver,” Maya explained. This maneuver involves having the birthing person pull their knees to their chest, effectively changing the angle of the pelvis to create more space for the baby to be born.

Layla, exhausted and overwhelmed by the physical demands of the labor, did her best to follow the instructions. The pressure was immense, and the familiar feeling of exhaustion was now accompanied by an overwhelming sense of urgency. She could hear Thomas’s voice, soft and steady, reassuring her, but even his presence couldn’t relieve the pressure she felt in her body.

As the McRoberts maneuver was attempted, the team’s actions were measured and precise. Sofia and Macy, with the assistance of the other midwives, gently applied suprapubic pressure, which involves pressing down just above the pubic bone to help guide the baby’s shoulder past the pelvic bone.

It was a delicate balance. The baby’s shoulder was lodged tightly, refusing to slip past the birth canal. The room became increasingly tense as they prepared for the next course of action.

“Prepare for the Zavanelli maneuver if necessary,” Maya instructed, her voice calm but urgent. This maneuver involves pushing the baby’s head back into the birth canal in an attempt to reposition the baby, but it is a last-resort technique that carries certain risks. Thankfully, the situation did not escalate to this point.

Layla, despite her exhaustion and the intense pressure, continued to push with every contraction. Her breath was shallow, her body trembling, but her focus remained sharp. She was fully aware of what was happening, but the priority was clear: get the baby out, no matter the cost.

The team worked seamlessly, a collective unit with one goal in mind—to ensure the safe delivery of Layla’s baby. With a final maneuver, the shoulders were freed, and the baby’s body slipped out into the world.

The moment was a whirlwind of medical intervention, physical strain, and raw emotion. Layla collapsed back against the bed, her body completely drained but with a sense of relief washing over her as the room finally filled with the cries of her newborn.

The room, which had felt like an arena of constant movement and intervention, suddenly seemed to hold its breath. Layla’s body, exhausted from hours of labor and the failed attempts to free the baby’s shoulders, was now in the hands of the skilled medical team. The sense of urgency was palpable; everyone knew that the Zavanelli maneuver was the last resort—a procedure that required precision, focus, and quick action.

Maya, who had been at Layla’s side through every stage of this harrowing journey, had seen the signs. The baby’s head, delivered but still stuck, was causing both maternal and fetal distress. Layla’s vitals were dropping, and the baby’s heart rate had dipped dangerously low. It was clear: the time for gentle adjustments was over. The team had to act decisively.

“Layla,” Maya said, her voice firm but compassionate, “we’re going to need to try something very serious now. It’s called the Zavanelli maneuver. It’s a procedure we use when we can’t free the baby’s shoulders with other methods, and we need to reposition the baby.”

Layla, her mind a blur of exhaustion and fear, nodded weakly. She trusted her team, but the severity of the situation was not lost on her. Her body trembled under the strain, and Thomas’s hand on hers offered a small measure of comfort. She had no idea what was coming, but she felt the gravity of the moment.

The maneuver required a delicate but forceful action. With the baby’s head still emerging, the medical team knew they had mere moments to act. The Zavanelli maneuver involved gently guiding the baby’s head back into the birth canal, but it was a procedure fraught with risks—risks that everyone in the room was acutely aware of.

“Layla, I’m going to need you to relax as much as you can,” Maya instructed as she positioned herself to assist. “We’re going to try to reposition the baby to relieve the shoulder dystocia, but this will take all of our focus.”

The room was filled with the sounds of deep breaths, the soft hum of medical equipment, and the occasional murmurs of the team as they readied themselves. Sofia, Macy, and Esther moved into position, each taking their place to support Maya in what could be a life-saving maneuver.

Maya’s hands were steady as she gently but firmly guided the baby’s head back into the birth canal. The pressure was intense, and the room seemed to hold its breath as the baby’s head was moved just enough to relieve the shoulder obstruction. The force required to complete the maneuver caused Layla to gasp, her body straining against the pressure, but she remained still, trusting the team to work as quickly and efficiently as possible.

“We’re almost there, Layla,” Sofia said, her voice a soothing presence amidst the tension. “Just hold on a little longer. We’re going to get your baby out.”

With a final, coordinated effort, the baby’s head was successfully repositioned, and the pressure on the shoulders was relieved. The room erupted in a brief sigh of relief, but there was no time for celebration. Layla’s body, already pushed to its limits, now faced the final push to deliver the rest of the baby.

Thomas’s face was pale with worry, his grip tightening on Layla’s hand as he whispered words of encouragement to her. The team’s efforts had spared both mother and child, but they knew that the journey wasn’t over yet.

The room remained quiet except for the sound of heavy breathing and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Layla, exhausted beyond measure, could feel her body trembling with each contraction. Every inch of her had been stretched, every muscle worn thin from hours of labor. But she wasn’t alone. Thomas, her unwavering support, stood at her side, his hand tightly gripped in hers, offering a grounding presence amidst the overwhelming pressure.

The team of medical professionals had worked tirelessly to help her through each challenge. The Zavanelli maneuver had helped shift the baby’s position slightly, but the shoulders, large and lodged in the birth canal, still posed a challenge. Layla’s body had borne the brunt of each intervention, and her energy was draining, but the team had not given up. They were now moving toward the final step: freeing the shoulders.

“Layla, we’re almost there,” Maya said, her voice calm but filled with urgency. She checked the baby’s head again, ensuring that the repositioning was successful. “We need a slightly larger cut to give us more space. You’ve done so much, and we’re going to do this quickly.”

Layla’s mind was foggy, but she nodded in agreement. She had no choice but to trust Maya and the team. The last hours of her labor had been filled with excruciating pressure, but there was a flicker of hope now. The end was in sight.

Sofia stood near Maya, ready to assist with the next step. “We’re going to make a small incision to help free the baby’s shoulders,” she explained softly, trying to reassure Layla. “It’s a common procedure when the shoulders are stuck, and it will make space for them to come through.”

Layla’s body tensed, but the thought of being one step closer to delivering her baby gave her the strength to push through. The medical team had been nothing short of miraculous, and they were committed to seeing this through.

Maya took a deep breath as she prepared for the next intervention. The cut was made—a small incision to the perineum—carefully and precisely, giving just enough room for the baby’s shoulders to pass through. The sharp sting of the incision was momentarily felt, but the relief came quickly as the increased space allowed for the baby’s shoulders to shift and begin to emerge.

Layla’s breathing was shallow, but she pushed with all the strength she had left, her body trembling with effort. Thomas was right beside her, his hand never leaving hers, whispering words of encouragement. “You’re doing amazing, Layla. You’ve got this.”

The pressure built again as the shoulders began to move through, and the room was filled with the sound of Layla’s exertion. Each push was a battle, but she continued with fierce determination. The moment of delivery was close, but they needed just a little more assistance to free the shoulders completely.

“We’re so close, Layla,” Macy said, her voice filled with empathy. “We’re almost there.”

With another push, the shoulders finally made their way past the birth canal, and the baby’s body followed quickly after. A rush of relief filled the room as the baby was safely born, the team working quickly to clear the airway and ensure that the newborn’s breathing was steady.

Layla collapsed back onto the bed, her body shaking with exhaustion, but her heart swelled with the overwhelming relief that came with the sound of her baby’s first cries. The pressure, the pain, and the uncertainty of the past hours melted away as she held her newborn for the first time.

Maya moved swiftly to clamp the umbilical cord, and Sofia worked to deliver the placenta. Layla, still gasping for air, held her baby close, her face streaked with tears of joy and exhaustion. She had made it through, with the support of her team and the love of Thomas by her side.

The room, now calm after the tumultuous birth of Layla's first child, was filled with soft breaths and quiet murmurs. The baby was in her arms, wrapped in a soft blanket, its tiny face nestled against her chest. Layla, although exhausted beyond belief, felt a profound sense of love and relief. Thomas stood beside her, looking down at their newborn with awe, his hand gently stroking Layla’s hair.

The medical team, though attentive, was now focusing on the standard post-birth procedures: ensuring that Layla’s vital signs were stable, checking on her perineal recovery, and making sure the placenta had been delivered fully. Everything had been painstakingly intense, but it seemed like it was over. For the moment, Layla had settled into a peaceful lull.

Maya, who had been observing from the foot of the bed, began to check for the placenta one last time. She gently pressed on Layla’s abdomen, feeling for any retained tissue. "Everything looks good, Layla," she said softly, her tone relaxed, but there was a slight furrow in her brow as she pressed a bit harder. "Just making sure we don't have any surprises left."

Layla nodded tiredly, trying to focus on the baby she held. She was so emotionally and physically drained that she barely had the energy to respond. Thomas, sensing her exhaustion, leaned down to kiss her forehead.

But then, suddenly, Maya’s expression shifted.

“There’s... something else,” Maya said, her voice almost in disbelief.

Layla looked up at her, her mind foggy with fatigue. “What do you mean?” she asked weakly.

“We... we may have missed something,” Maya said, her hands carefully pressing down on Layla’s abdomen once more. “It feels like there's another baby.”

A stunned silence fell over the room. Layla blinked, her body going cold with disbelief. Her mind tried to process the information, but it was almost too much. Her first child had been born. The pain was immense. How could there possibly be another baby?

Thomas’s face contorted with shock. “Another... baby?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “Are you sure?”

Maya looked over to Macy, who nodded in confirmation. “It’s not uncommon, though rare. It seems like there's still a smaller baby left, and it's positioned in a way that was hidden during the earlier exams.”

The team sprang into action, their calm professionalism a stark contrast to the chaos Layla felt brewing inside her. Her mind swirled with panic and confusion. How could she have been carrying two babies without anyone noticing? This revelation changed everything, but there was no time to process it. The focus now was on getting the second baby delivered safely.

Layla's eyes closed in disbelief, a mix of exhaustion and fear running through her. “But I—how did we miss it?” she whispered.

“It happens sometimes,” Macy reassured her gently, her voice soft yet reassuring. “The second baby can sometimes be hidden, especially if it's in a position like this. But we’ve got this. We know what we’re doing.”

The room, which had felt like a haven of calm and relief just moments ago, now buzzed with activity. The medical staff quickly shifted focus from Layla's immediate recovery to preparing for the surprise second delivery. The first baby was now securely in Layla’s arms, but there was still work to be done.

Layla’s body felt like it was betraying her. The aching muscles, the sharp pangs, the exhaustion—it was all overwhelming. She could feel a renewed pressure in her abdomen, a feeling she hadn’t anticipated. Thomas, ever the supportive partner, remained at her side, his hand in hers. He kissed her cheek, trying to soothe her nerves, though he himself was still in shock.

Maya, aware of Layla’s physical strain, gently encouraged her to relax. “Layla, we’re going to take it slow,” she said. “We’ll give your body a moment to adjust, and then we’ll deliver the second baby.”

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the team prepped for the unexpected delivery. The room seemed charged with tension, each person focused on the task at hand. Layla’s body was beyond fatigued, but there was no choice now. She was a mother, and another life depended on her.

The atmosphere in the room had shifted again, the earlier shock settling into a tense anticipation. Layla, still holding her first baby against her chest, could barely comprehend what had just been revealed to her. Her body ached from the trauma of the earlier birth, but now, the overwhelming realization of another baby—this time in breech position—was adding an even more dangerous layer of complexity to the situation.

“Layla,” Maya said, her voice gentle but firm, “We’re going to have to move quickly now. The second baby is breech, and the head is stuck.”

The words sent a cold rush through Layla’s body, her heart beating faster in response. Breech positions were always complicated, and when the head was stuck, it added a level of danger that couldn’t be ignored. Her body, still trembling from the intense work of the first birth, now had to face an entirely new challenge—one that could be life-threatening for both her and her second baby.

Thomas’s face grew pale. “Breech? What does that mean?” His voice cracked with the weight of the situation, his hand still holding Layla’s tightly as if trying to anchor them both.

“It means the baby is coming feet-first, and the head is wedged in the birth canal,” Macy explained calmly, though the urgency in her voice couldn’t be concealed. “We need to act quickly to avoid any further complications. But first, we need to get you into position.”

Maya quickly signaled to the team, who moved with practiced efficiency. They gently adjusted Layla, helping her shift her legs so that she was in a more conducive position to try and free the baby. Layla’s mind swam with confusion and fear as she tried to grasp the enormity of the situation. She couldn’t seem to shake the exhaustion from her first birth—every muscle in her body felt like it was being pulled to its limit. But the moment her body adjusted, she felt the unmistakable pressure again, pushing her back into the focus of the task at hand.

“Layla, we’re going to need you to push again,” Maya said. “This is going to be different, though. It’s going to require your cooperation, and it’s going to be hard. But we need to move quickly. We’re going to try and release the stuck head.”

Layla nodded, biting back tears. She could feel the baby inside her, its body still wedged deep. The pressure from her abdomen was unbearable, a heavy weight pressing down on her pelvis, threatening to overwhelm her. But this time, there was no room for hesitation. She knew her body was not her own at that moment; it was an instrument of life and death, and she had to surrender to that truth.

“Okay, I can do this,” she said, though her voice trembled. Thomas squeezed her hand tighter, offering all the reassurance he could.

The midwives and doctors worked quickly, preparing for what they would need to do. Maya checked the baby’s position again, her hand gently reaching to locate the feet. “The feet are descending, but the head remains stuck, and that’s where we’re going to need to focus.”

Layla’s breath hitched as she felt the tug of another contraction building. The pain was more intense than anything she had felt during the earlier birth—perhaps because of the sheer weight of the second baby, or the fact that it was breech. Her body, already battered and strained, trembled with the effort it took to handle the pressure.

“On the next contraction, Layla, I need you to push like you did before, but with more force,” Macy instructed, her voice calm but carrying the weight of urgency. “We’ll try to work the baby out, but we need your help.”

Layla clenched her fists, bracing herself. The contraction hit hard, and instinctively, she pushed with all her might. Her entire body tensed, every fiber screaming in protest. But the head remained stuck.

“Again,” Maya said. “Push again, Layla. We can do this.”

But with each push, the reality of the situation became more apparent. The baby’s head was wedged too tightly, and no matter how much force Layla exerted, it refused to move. She could feel the baby’s tiny body shifting in response to her pushes, but the head was still lodged, unmoving. Sweat poured down her face, and her breath became shallow and ragged as she fought to control the pain and the panic rising within her.

“This isn’t working,” Macy said. “We need to try something else.”

Layla gasped, her voice filled with desperation. “What? What do we do?”

Maya moved closer to her, offering reassurance despite the growing tension. “We’re going to try to help manually. We’ll work with you and carefully manipulate the baby’s position. But it will be painful, Layla. We’ll need to be very careful.”

The room was filled with focused energy as the team prepared for the next step. Thomas, standing by Layla’s side, looked down at her, his expression filled with a mixture of concern and helplessness. Layla, still holding their first baby in her arms, felt the heavy burden of the unexpected situation weighing on her.

The medical team began to gently try to reposition the baby. Maya and Macy worked together, using their hands to try and shift the baby’s head from where it was stuck. Their fingers were gentle but firm as they sought to make enough room to free the head. Layla cried out from the discomfort, her body shaking in response.

“I know it hurts, Layla,” Maya said, her voice soothing. “But we’re going to help you. We’re going to make sure both you and your babies are safe.”

The pain intensified as the midwives carefully attempted to manipulate the baby’s position, working to rotate the head and free it from its stuck position. The pressure was unbearable, and Layla’s cries echoed through the room.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Macy repeated, her hands firm but gentle. “But we have to get this right. Just one more push, Layla, and we can get the head free.”

After the challenging delivery of the breech baby, the room fell into a temporary silence, the intensity of the moment slowly ebbing away. Layla, still trembling from the emotional and physical toll, was left breathless as her second baby, now safely in her arms, let out a soft cry. She barely had the strength to smile, but a tear slipped down her cheek as she gazed at her newborn—a little girl, smaller than the first, but just as beautiful.

Thomas stood beside her, his face pale but filled with a profound sense of relief. He gently caressed Layla’s hair, his touch soft as he whispered words of comfort. "You did it. You both did. You're incredible."

Layla's body, however, was far from finished. The pain that had been unbearable throughout the delivery now remained as a constant throb in her pelvis, and the strain of the emergency procedures lingered in her limbs. The medical team quickly shifted focus toward her aftercare, aware that the extensive trauma Layla had endured would require immediate attention.

Maya, Macy, and Aaliyah worked in tandem, moving with practiced efficiency to help Layla through the aftermath of her deliveries. The team was quick to attend to her, starting with her vitals. A blood pressure cuff was placed around her arm, and an oxygen mask was adjusted over her nose and mouth to ensure she could regain her breath after the intense labor. Layla, still shaken, breathed deeply, feeling the cool air fill her lungs.

"We need to assess your tears," Maya said, her tone calm but resolute as she examined the area around Layla’s perineum. "It’s important to stitch you up now to prevent any further complications."

Layla flinched as the examination began, her body still sore and sensitive. It felt like every nerve was raw from the force of the delivery and the multiple interventions. The stitching process began immediately—another part of the recovery that Layla had dreaded. Aaliyah stood beside her, gently wiping her forehead with a damp cloth.

As Maya and Macy carefully stitched up the episiotomies and tears, the room’s atmosphere was one of quiet, focused tension. Thomas stayed close, holding Layla’s hand, his face a mix of awe and concern. He knew she was in pain, but he could also see the relief in her eyes as her second baby was carefully placed in her arms.

"You're doing great," Aaliyah reassured her, offering a gentle smile. "We’re almost done. You’ve been through so much, but we’ll take good care of you now."

Despite the physical discomfort, Layla felt a sense of peace as her babies were now both with her. The emotional toll of the deliveries still weighed heavily on her, but she found comfort in the fact that they were alive and healthy. The babies’ cries were small but steady, their tiny chests rising and falling with each breath.

Once the tears were stitched up, the team moved on to more routine recovery steps. Layla’s uterus was massaged gently to help it contract and shrink back to its normal size. There was still some bleeding, which was expected after a delivery as traumatic as this, but the nurses and midwives continued to monitor it closely. An IV was placed in her arm, the fluids and medications flowing into her bloodstream to help replenish what she had lost during the intense labor and delivery.

"I know this is uncomfortable, but we need to keep you hydrated and make sure your body has everything it needs to recover," Macy explained as she adjusted the IV drip. Layla nodded, her eyelids heavy as she fought the exhaustion that was beginning to pull at her.

The final part of Layla’s aftercare included the delivery of the placenta. It was a process that many mothers didn’t realize was still necessary after the baby’s birth, but it was important for ensuring that all remnants of the pregnancy were expelled from her body. Layla felt a deep, pressure-filled sensation as the placenta was gently coaxed from her uterus. It was another part of the process she hadn’t anticipated but had to endure.

"We’ve got it," Aaliyah said, holding up the placenta for the others to examine. "It’s all clear."

Layla’s body finally began to relax, the worst of the labor behind her. The pain, while still present, became more manageable as time passed. She could feel the soreness in her lower abdomen and pelvis, her muscles stiff and bruised from the exertion. The stitches in her perineum burned as the local anesthetic wore off, but there was a sense of completion now.

"How are you feeling?" Thomas asked softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His concern was palpable, and Layla couldn’t help but smile at the care he showed her, despite his own exhaustion.

"I’m... so tired," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I’m okay. I’m just so glad they’re here."

Thomas kissed her forehead, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You’re amazing. You’ve been through so much, and you’re still so strong."

Layla smiled faintly, her eyes drifting to the two newborns in her arms. The pain of the labor was starting to recede, replaced by a deep sense of awe and gratitude for the little lives she had brought into the world. She had made it through the impossible, and as she gazed down at her children, she couldn’t help but think that every moment had been worth it.

"I love you both so much," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Thomas looked down at their children, his eyes softening.

"We’re a family," he whispered back, his voice filled with wonder. "And I’ll always be here to take care of you."

As the aftercare continued, the medical team remained by her side, ensuring that Layla’s recovery was as smooth as possible. She would need rest, fluids, and time for her body to heal fully, but for now, all she wanted was to hold her babies close. The next few days would bring more challenges as her body healed from the trauma of the birth, but in that moment, with her children in her arms, everything seemed to slow down, and Layla could finally begin to let go of the weight of the ordeal.

With the quiet of the room settling over her, Layla allowed herself a moment to breathe, to take in the overwhelming love she felt for the tiny beings in her arms. She had survived something extraordinary, and now, she could focus on the quiet joy of new motherhood.

[lexirosewrites]

For slick sunday

O!Steve & A!Eddie have 3 nuggets in their grand 6 nugget plans, Steve is pregnant with nugget #4 after nuggets 2 & 3 were a set of twins & everyone is excited & nugget 4 is due around December 28th! They've done this twice now so they have their hospital bag ready, Eddie plans to remember his shoes this time after running out the door without them for both trips to the hospital, & Steve plans to eat a burger w fries & a chocolate shake before letting Eddie take him to the hospital bc once he's in there they won't let him eat, they have Grandpa Wayne on standby to take care of their pups while they're focusing on bringing nugget #4 into the world... except Steve doesn't go into labor on the 28th, the baby doesn't even drop but no one is worried because they've learned by now tht due dates are an educated guess most of the time

Except, then it's new year's eve & while Steve thinks the baby might have dropped while he was sleeping the night before he isnt feeling any of the usual pains he's come to associate w labor, still no one is too worried so they go about the end of year holiday as usual. The Munson family attend the new years party that A!Nancy/B!Jonathan/B!Argyle host every year, wherein the entire world saving party + family & spouses are invited, this year is the first time in awhile tht everyone is able to attend

Argyle has prepared a bunch of games to keep the pups busy as the night goes on & eventually Steve & Eddie w help from A!Lucas lay their kids down to nap till midnight, at around 10:30pm Steve is in the kitchen with Max & Suzie, the 3 of them laughing at Eddie & B!El as they beat out the others at a drinking game, the conversation flows & they end up on the topic of nugget #4 being overdue w Suzie joking abt the possibility of Steve's water breaking at midnight, they all laugh but then Steve abruptly stops as he feels exactly what Suzie described. His water broke & dammit that's what his small stomach cramps were all day & double dammit Eddie's been drinking!!!!!

Then it is utter chaos as a full contraction hits Steve & he tells Suzie to get Eddie & instead Max ends up yelling for Eddie bc Suzie has gone pale & tht just summons everyone at the party & then Eddie is panicking bc he's been drinking & so has the majority of the party guests except Steve & Max: Steve for obvious reasons & Max bc elumax r trying for a baby & so Steve says something he never thought he would, "Max you're going to have to drive."

The pandemonium gets louder as A!Robin calls the hospital, steddie realize they obviously dont have their hospital bag & Max has to help steve into the car while Eddie clambers into the backseat, then they're off & Eddie sobers up as best he can just from the adrenaline of the situation, they definitely break a few traffic laws but arrive to the hospital in one piece, only for Max to run in & realize tht Robin called the wrong hospital & the doctor & nurses aren't ready for them but the hospital staff don't let tht slow them down too much

Soon enough Steve is wheeled in & situated in a room & his contractions timed by a nurse while Eddie drinks something another nurse gave him to help him sober up a little more as Steve clutches his hand & then Steve is yelling because he can't hold off on the urge to push any longer & the delivery nurse is sending another nurse out to hunt down any doctor

Meanwhile Max is making a confusing call to the hospital she deduces Robin did call telling the receptionist to please if anyone arrives looking for the Munsons to tell them they're at this specific hospital & not tht one

For the rest of the pack it's a wild goose chase as the others arrive at the hospital Robin called only to b directed to another hospital

Max meets them in the waiting area telling them she doesn't know anything beyond the staff got Steve into a room & Eddie is drinking something gross to sober up

It's a hectic birth as a doctor they don't know but who was on call in the ER downstairs handles the delivery while their actual doctor races from home after the nurses call her, she gets there & scrubs in just in time to scoot the other doctor aside, coach Steve through the last two pushes, & catch the baby who opens his mouth to breathe & cry & generally let everyone know he is displeased w being out of the warm womb, right away

It's as a nurse & the stand in doctor look at the clock tht they all register the sounds of cheering throughout the building

Nugget #4, Jim Hendrix Munson is born at exactly 12:01am on January 1st 1996, he is a healthy baby with strong lungs & a head of dark hair & he is fussy in the bath till a nurse calls Eddie over to help clean the baby up, then he is placed in the waiting arms of his mom & both parents scent the newborn as soon as he's settled, not long after Eddie reluctantly leaves his mate & new baby to go out & inform the pack of the safe delivery

Before he can speak Robin hugs him & shoves their hospital bag into his arms because she'd gone to their home to get it for them & in the same breath apologizes for calling the wrong hospital but no one is actually upset & Eddie tells her tht, Nancy let's him know tht their pups are safe at the house w Argyle who's called Wayne

"Well that's good, & even better is our baby! He's in the world with ten fingers & ten toes & a set of lungs destined for metal, we've named him Jim"

Hopper outright cries at this tidbit of information

Everyone eventually disperses & Eddie goes back to the room to swaddle their baby in the cloth the parents had been scenting for months

Outside the world welcomes the new year & the parents welcome their new baby

& when the sunrises Robin is the first visitor with a greasy bag containing a bacon double cheeseburger, fries, & she carries in her hand a large chocolate cake shake from portillo's

i’m living for this chaos of love🥰

[animentality]

[hellfire435678]

She. Gave. Birth. On. A. Boat.

[unbfacts]