That Night We Became Parents Vol. 14 — WordsByEkta🌿
That Night We Became Parents
I don't remember what we ate that night. Probably something simple — rice, dal, whatever Ma had cooked. But I remember the silence. The kind that fills a room and sits on your chest.
The doctor had asked us to be at the hospital by 11:30 p.m. I thought we'd just book a cab. But no cabs were accepting. I paced in and out of the house. Time was running out. Eventually, we flagged an auto. The night air was freezing. I held the edge of the seat with one hand and my swollen belly with the other. My husband, Kunal, sat beside me, saying little. Maybe there was nothing left to say.
At the hospital, they took me straight to emergency. The nurse checked my dilation. None. A medicine was ordered to begin induction.
I kept looking around for Kunal. The room was bright, sterile. I asked the nurse which side to lie on, and she sounded almost irritated — as if I should already know. Later, another nurse gave me the medication to empty my stomach. I obeyed, though my body protested every touch and instruction.
They said there were no private rooms that night. I'd be shifted to a semi-private one upstairs. Fine. I just needed a bed. I wanted to feel safe.
When I got there, the nurse told me to lie on my side again — this time to administer the first dose of induction. She was businesslike. Cold. But it wasn't just her tone — it was everything. I was already stretched thin. The bed, the wires, the IV, the fear.
Then came the discussion about shaving. The nurses hovered and whispered, mildly scolding me for not doing it at home. One muttered about using hair removal cream. Another sighed. I stared at the wall. Shame and helplessness mixed in my chest.
Just then, the assistant doctor walked in and silenced them immediately. "No creams. Only razors. Anything else can risk infection."
I wanted to thank her. I didn't. My sister-in-law was with me, and I just murmured to her, "Tell Kunal not to bring the cream. I didn't use the razor at home because I couldn't bend — not because I was lazy."
Even saying that made me feel small.
The medicine started working. I felt the urge to use the bathroom. But a nurse warned me, "Don't push. Be careful. The labor meds might start soon." I froze. Even peeing felt like a risk now. I held the walls, careful with the IV in my hand. My body didn't feel like mine.
The stretch marks and rashes didn't help. I wanted to claw my skin off. The room was cold, and the heater on my bed was broken. When they brought a new one, the plug didn't match the socket. I was shivering, itching, exhausted. I sent word to Kunal again through my sister-in-law.
My doctor stopped by briefly. She wasn't on duty but had come for an emergency case. Just seeing her brought a breath of peace. For a moment, I believed everything might be okay.
But then I overheard two nurses whispering — something about the medication. I couldn't hear it fully, but it sounded wrong. Like they were covering something up. Panic flooded me. I rushed back to the bed. "Tell Kunal," I whispered. "Something's wrong with the medicine."
Soon after, a nurse came and said I was being shifted again. Another semi-private room, same floor. She said it like it was normal. But it wasn't. Not for me. Not that night.
When Kunal arrived, I could finally breathe. I told him about the whispering, the shift, the medicine. He listened carefully, eyes serious. When the assistant doctor returned, he asked her directly. She explained calmly — it had just been a lower dose instead of the higher dose intended. "I'll cover that up in this dose," she said. No danger, she said. But my fear had already made a home inside me.
Kunal stayed with me after that. He hadn't slept until now. I could tell by his eyes, the way he moved. I didn't want to burden him, but I couldn't stop calling or messaging whenever I needed to be checked on. When he said, "I thought at least sister-in-law could rest, so I sent her to be with my brother and came here," his tone was sharper than I expected. I went quiet. He stayed in the room. But he didn't sleep.
I drifted off for a while, but no labor came.
In the morning, another assistant came to check. With a smirk, she said, "Are you here to sleep or to give birth?"
I said nothing. What was there to say?
Later, the main doctor returned. She examined me, nodded, and said we'd begin the real induction now. The earlier medicines were just groundwork for this. My brother and sister-in-law had gone home to freshen up. Other family members were starting to arrive.
Then the pain began. But the baby wouldn't descend.
"Pain alone isn't enough," the doctor said. "The baby must come lower."
I writhed, winced, pressed my hips into the bed. But instead of comfort, I got commentary.
"We had pain too, but we didn't scream," someone said.
"Don't act dramatic. Push it down," another added.
Still, the baby didn't come.
The doctor checked again and manually broke my water. A gush soaked my legs and gown. Someone made a sarcastic comment about the liquids I'd been drinking, on the advice of the doctor.
I swallowed hard. Following the doctor's advice wasn't foolish. But even that was mocked.
I was soaked. I hadn't packed for this. I asked my sister-in-law to bring fresh clothes.
Finally, the doctor said it was time. Surgery was the only path left.
They prepped me. I was wheeled to the OT. A spinal injection was administered. I had feared this the most. I'd read stories — about years of pain after.
But I said yes.
I lay down. The doctors around me casually chatted about a party. I wondered — Has it started? Is she coming?
A baby's cry.
It couldn't be mine… could it?
I hadn't felt a thing — no slice, no tug, no rupture between before and after.
Just a hollow stillness where pain should've been.
It was as if the surgery hadn't even begun —
and yet, there she was.
Her cry rose like a monsoon wind before the first drop had touched the earth.
How could she be mine,
when my body hadn't even realized it had let her go?
A nurse came close. "It's a girl," she whispered.
She was wrapped in the same blanket Kunal had been swaddled in as a newborn. I don't remember if I smiled. But I know tears came. Quietly. Not from pain. From something deeper — relief, awe, love.
And in that moment — finally, fully — I knew she was mine. Not just a cry. Not just a fact. But a living, breathing truth my heart had just caught up to.
Kunal told me later that when the staff asked for a signature, they first approached my father — since Kunal had stepped out briefly to run some errands. But he overheard my father refusing to sign out of fear.
So the nurse turned to Kunal next. He couldn't say no — not like my father had. Someone had to sign. There was no choice.
He took the papers, but his hand trembled so badly that the pen slipped twice. He had to ask them to repeat what the consent was for, even though he already knew. His mind couldn't hold onto anything — not the words, not the instructions. Just that moment. Just that signature.
The second the OT doors closed behind me, something in Kunal gave way. He had held himself together all night — navigating the freezing auto ride, the sterile hospital corridors, the endless questions from family, the half-explained updates from staff, pretending to be calm for my sake — but now, he couldn't breathe. He found an empty bench, sank into it, and covered his face with both hands.
"I couldn't stop shaking," he said quietly, days later. "I kept telling myself you were okay, that this was normal. But my body wouldn't listen. I felt like a child. Powerless. Completely useless."
He didn't want anyone to see. He buried his face into his arms and cried the kind of cry he hadn't allowed himself since he was a boy. Not from weakness, but because the person he loved most in the world was behind a door he couldn't walk through. And nothing — not logic, not reassurance, not even prayer — could touch the helplessness of that moment.
He told me he cried until his mask was wet and the fabric stuck to his skin. He rubbed his face raw just trying to pull the mask off. A nurse walked by, glanced at him, and kept walking. Maybe she understood. Maybe she didn't.
When he realized no one had brought our hospital bag up — when he saw people scrambling, asking relatives, checking lockers — he left the hospital and bought everything all over again. Mittens, diapers, a cap. Even though his heart was still stuck in that corridor. Even though his legs felt like they could give out any second. He didn't want our daughter's first hour to feel unprepared. He wanted her first hour on earth to be met with warmth, not scarcity.
He told me none of this then. Only later. After the chaos had ebbed. When he appeared beside my bed, holding her gently — as if the world hadn't just cracked open inside him — and then, for the very first time, we held her together.
A truth my heart had just caught up to.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
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