THE IRONIC THING was that in a way, Lindy had already experienced birth. She'd experienced it many times. But she had always been on the opposite end of things, standing by while someone else did the hard work of actually pushing the baby out.
Lindy had stood at the heads of so many screaming woman, chanting words of encouragement and urging them to push. She had rubbed the backs of strangers whom she had never met, easing the pain of crippling contractions. And she had been at the foot of birthing beds, holding writhing legs in the air and watching babies who were not hers enter the world.
But this time, this version of birth, would be different. She was finally on the other end. She would be the screaming woman, sweating and panting and demanding relief to the pain that was about to take over her very being.
Lindy had complained about her job before, calling it tedious and exhausting, but as Kurt drove down the four-oh-five going fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, she realized that she had taken working on the other end of the spectrum for granted.
Kurt was flashing his eyes between the road and Lindy, who was sitting in the passenger seat — or rather, crouching in the passenger seat, breathing heavily and clutching at her belly. The Dodge Dart was swerving in and out of traffic, a feat that would have impressed Lindy on any ordinary day since Kurt was the most cautious driver she knew.
"Can you sit down in your seat, you're making me nervous," Kurt pleaded, side-eyeing Lindy with panic.
"Don't tell me what to do," Lindy snapped back. She groaned shortly after, leaning farther forward. She almost felt sick; the contractions were painful enough to make her stomach turn.
"Okay, okay!" Kurt said, jerking the car into the far right lane and tightening his fingers around the wheel until his skin stretched over the bone and turned white.
When they finally whipped into the hospital parking lot, Lindy took charge and threw open the car door, attempting to climb weakly out of the passenger side.
"Stop! Just hold on!" Kurt shouted, hurriedly unbuckling his seat belt and scurrying to Lindy's side of the car. He helped her out and together they limped up to the front of the emergency room. Lindy could feel her contractions intensifying, rapid and rushed as they consumed her midsection. It felt like someone had dipped their hands into her intestines, twisting them until they tore apart. Once each contraction passed, she was left breathless in wake of the pain.
"Labor?" barked a male nurse, grabbing a wheelchair and springing into action when he saw them both enter.
"She just . . . she just went in . . . she's in pain . . .," Kurt stammered, guiding Lindy into the seat of the wheelchair with trembling hands.
"Give me Beth," Lindy growled. "Beth Ansley. Labor and delivery ward."
"She works here too," Kurt said quickly, nodding at Lindy.
"Alright. Let's get her to a room," the nurse shot back, bumping Kurt out of the way (leaving him wearing an outraged expression) and pushing Lindy at a brisk jog down the hallways of the hospital.
If it weren't for the aches that ravaged her lower stomach, Lindy would have been mildly embarrassed to be wheeled in to her place of work while coping under labor pains. A few familiar faces turned her way as she was pushed into the ward, but she was only intent on settling her eyes on one face in particular. And besides, she did have Kurt Cobain behind her — someone was bound to notice him, hurrying after a random woman in labor.
