Sitting in the light

I sit on a hard stool under a bright light that illuminates torn muscle, stretched skin, and dripping blood just inches from my face. It is hot beneath the light.It is 1 a.m. On a metal cart behind me is a jumbled array of sterile scissors, clamps, and forceps. I hold the needle driver in one hand, a sponge in the other.A woman has just given birth, and I am sitting between her propped-up legs about to start repairing her tear.I hear almost nothing. An embracing quiet has slipped in to replace the clamour of a room welcoming the world’s newest breath. There are the tender taps of the nurse’s fingers on the keyboard as they record the words and numbers for this unique arrival story. Occasionally a meddling beep from the IV machine tugs at the quiet, as does a wheel squeak from my stool. The most welcome tug is the baby’s cry followed by gentle whispers from the head of the bed.Back on the metal cart, a round basin holds a thick purple mass relaxing its smooth edges softly against the cool basin walls. My fingers have already traced its nurturing lumps and protective surfaces to ensure it is in one piece. It is and now it rests; its vital job is done. I hear the resident doctor pick up scissors from the cart and then crouch beside me into this moment.We see something at once adorable and serene—a tiny foot peeking out from under a blanket just beyond our workspace. The resident giggles softly. I smile and admire, again, the juxtaposition of miraculous creation and routine destruction; the latter where we must now turn our attention.As we orient ourselves to the layers of open tissues in front of us, I recall the story my class read in high school of a child compelled to swim through an ocean rock tunnel of coloured water, who banged up against the uneven, rocky walls, who struggled to find their breath as their body navigated the tight passage to the light on the other side*. It was a harrowing journey. My classmates and I had stared blankly at our teacher as he waited for us to tell him what this story represented. How were we to know? It’s not like we remembered. This baby with this tiny foot won’t remember either, won’t be able to tell their own story of reaching the light. None of us can. Yet, every single one of us made this journey.I sit in the light at the end of the tunnel. This new mother locks her eyes on mine. Her glance is brief but bursting and I reciprocate. Joy, trust, and gratitude flow through the light, strengthening a bridge of memories between us—memories from the years before she arrived at this hospital, and the memories promised for the years after with her baby. I am her family doctor. I will help remember this baby’s story.Distant sounds in the hallway alert me to the other birth stories around us, each at a different stage. Although perhaps someone else is sitting as I am now in the peace that follows the trial, in the relief after the worry, and basking in the boundless love and hope of a family just formed.Are they also sitting in the light, almost overcome with emotion because even though they have done this hundreds of times, the miracle has still found its way, as it always does, into their heart?Inches from my face, small drops of blood trickle languidly to the floor like a forgotten tap. The IV machine beeps. I wiggle my nose as my hands get to work. I work as I sit in this room, on this stool, in the bright light.This story is taken from Full Circle: a collection of family medicine birth stories, an anthology of stories from family physicians across Canada. It is available in select bok stores and here at amazon.ca.

Sitting in the light

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