The Journey to Marisol's Birth
We get into the car, and Carlos starts going over the entire route: First, he needs to inform my parents to head to the hospital since they insisted on being there for the birth. He calls my parents, who get ready and also let us know that Valéria will accompany us and stay with Juan.
"You know, there's a silver lining to your whole family showing up today," Carlos says as he drives.
"Oh really? And what would that be?" I ask, seriously.
"Your sister will stay with Juan, your mom will go with you to the delivery room, and your dad will take me to the airport."
"Seriously? When did you think of all this?"
"Love, it's the only way. Of course, if Marisol is born in two hours and thirty-five minutes, I can make it to the delivery," my husband says, looking at his wristwatch. I look at him incredulously.
"Do you really think I have control over that?" I ask, annoyed.
"I know I don't, love, but it doesn't hurt to try."
"Oh sure, and you want her to start crying at what time? Should we time when to cut the umbilical cord too?" I question, rubbing my belly. "Listen, girl, I think you'd better come out soon before I kill your dad."
"Please, love, don't be so angry. I don't have a choice about this," Carlos says, turning around. "We're here."
Carlos parks the car and helps me out. Then he takes Marisol's suitcase and carries Juan in his arms as we walk toward the entrance. My husband picks up a wheelchair and insists I sit in it.
"What are you doing?" I ask angrily, watching him adjust the wheelchair for me.
"I got it for you to sit comfortably," Carlos replies.
"There's absolutely no need for me to move around in a wheelchair," I say, practically exploding with anger. "I'm perfectly fine; I'm not even having contractions. Besides, if you want, you can just leave me here and go to Portugal."
I continue walking like a duck toward the hospital reception, while I hear my husband's heavy breathing behind me. We arrive at the reception, and my parents are already there, with my father talking loudly to the receptionist.
"Listen carefully, my daughter is about to have my granddaughter, so don't tell me there isn't a private room in this entire hospital?"
"Mr. Ramon, is everything alright?" Carlos asks, approaching with Juan.
"This hospital is a dump!" my father exclaims, upset.
"Sir, I'm explaining that at the moment, we don't have a private room reserved for you because you booked it for a few days from now."
"I understand," my husband says calmly. He puts Juan on the floor, and he clings to his leg. Carlos continues, "What do you have available, if possible?"
"Unfortunately, we only have shared rooms with three people, as all the private rooms are occupied," the receptionist informs, looking at her computer screen.
"It seems like all the pregnant women in Barcelona have come to give birth here!" my father taunts.
"We are a reference hospital, and I suppose that's why we have such a high demand," the receptionist explains.
"Alright, I don't mind sharing the room," I say, approaching the counter. "I accept one of those."
"Alright. As you are a large group, I can only authorize one companion for the shared room," the receptionist says, receiving an eye roll from my father. The young woman looks at me, practically pleading for help. "Look, I promise that as soon as a private room becomes available, I'll transfer you there."
"That's fine, it makes no difference to me," I reply nonchalantly. After all, whether it's a private room or not, Marisol is ready to be born.
"Ma'am, could you please tell me who will be your companion?" the employee asks.
"Dulce Penedo," I reply without looking at either my husband or my family, who undoubtedly didn't understand why I chose my mother as my companion when Carlos was right there.
"I, daughter? Are you sure?" my mother asks, surprised.
"Yes, because my husband has an important trip to Portugal," I finally say, looking deep into my husband's eyes.
"What do you mean? What trip could be more important than the birth of a child?" my father asks, staring at Carlos. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Mr. Ramon, it's a work trip. A trip that guarantees a significant portion of our income and also pays for this hospital," my husband replies, as serious as ever. He then turns to me and continues, "I'll stay for as long as I can, Dália. I've told you this before." Carlos rebuts.
"Oh yes, two hours and a little bit, that's the timeframe you gave for Marisol to be born," I reply, bending forward, finally feeling the first contraction.
"Dália," my husband calls, holding onto me. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. My labor seems to have started. Just hope your daughter is born in two hours," I say. I bend forward again, feeling another contraction.
"So, who will accompany you then?" the receptionist asks.
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