From the window of the delivery room, I could see a construction crew at work on the roof over the entryway to emergency, two floors below. The roof was a curving metal wave, very modern, and it was, in a way, before the contractions got to be too big, kind of comforting to think of the world operating in its usual fashion outside of our little room. Amy was being induced, which is part of the story, as we'll see, and early on things were easy. She was holding my hand and listening to The Flaming Lips on the iPod, rocking out just like it was 1993, before we'd met and before anything like the birth of a child had occurred as any kind of definable reality for either one of us. It seemed easy so far, but this being our second child, we knew better. We knew that this was a peaceful little interlude before things got really heavy.

My wife was being induced because Dr. Awesome--so called by Amy because of her relentlessly sunny disposition--said the sooner, the better. All around, at the Ob-Gyn--the Baby Factory, as we call it, in and out like clockwork--we've gotten better than usual service. Amy's dad is a doctor at the nearby hospital, and there was a precise advantage here to her keeping her maiden name. More than that, though, she has a blood clotting disorder of the kind that will probably never cause her any trouble in her life but which, if care is not taken to avoid conditions favorable to clotting, could result in a serious lawsuit. Nobody wants that. Care was indeed being taken from every angle.

And that was part of the reason for the early induction, a week and a half before the due date. No one wanted to take any risks. Also, the Little Brother, as we'd taken to calling him, was not gaining weight at the rate predicted, which could be a sign of clotting in the placenta. Better safe than sorry.

When the contractions got to be too much, Amy got up and walked around the room--staggered is more like it, tethered by all sorts of cables to a monitor and IV stand that I had to push along behind her--and sat in a chair for a while. When she got back in the bed, the nurses had trouble with the monitoring equipment. The contractions were getting too strong too quickly. Amy was shaky, quivering. The nurses gave her oxygen. The baby's heartbeat had dropped from the 130s to the 80s. For a while, it disappeared altogether. More nurses came in--four, then five, then six--followed finally by Dr. Awesome, who said something about "another option." One of the nurses handed Amy a form on a clipboard signifying consent to undertake a c-section, and she scribbled something on it that bore a vague resemblance to her signature. Before I knew it, the whole crew was headed down the hall to the operating room. One nurse stayed behind as I started putting on the scrubs she handed me. I ripped the pants while pulling them on.

To get to the operating room, we had to go through construction. The air was clogged with dust from sanded drywall compound, and a big plastic tarp was blue-taped to the end of the corridor. The others had already gone through, and one of the workers was already taping the plastic sheet back to the wall. He took it down again, and I went in following the nurse. I had to wait out in the hall for a few minutes, between the construction area and the operating room. I wasn't sure why I had to wait. I sat down in a plastic chair. A worker came up to re-tape the tarp hanging over the doorway. He saw me sitting there, and he asked me how it was going. He might have thought I was a doctor, or maybe he didn't. I don't know what kind of look I might have had on my face. I don't remember what I said back to him.

In a few minutes, one of the nurses came out and called me into the operating room. There was more talk of another option. I heard pieces of conversation, but I didn't understand most of it. I remember hearing a fragment of a sentence from a nurse I didn't recognize: "All the stuff they've put in her," a fragment that had, in context, the weight of a declaration. I assumed she was referring to Pitocin, the agent that induces contractions. She wasn't referring to any kind of pain medication because Amy hadn't had any. I stood next to the bed holding Amy's hand while Dr. Awesome reached in and manually effaced her cervix the final two centimeters.

"We've got baby's heartbeat again and he's looking just fine, but just in case we're going to stay right here. The anesthesiologist is standing by in case we need to go for another option."

The anesthesiologist came into the room, all matter of fact, but perturbed about something. He spoke to Dr. Awesome for a moment, then came over to Amy, whose contractions were getting stronger. He hovered over her, waiting, while Dr. Awesome waited at the other end of the table. She told Amy to put her right foot up on her shoulder, and I helped hold up the leg and put it into position. Nurses held up the other leg.

The anesthesiologist started asking questions, matter of fact, his tone no different than if he were sitting down in the office and running over a few of the routine preliminaries. He said he knew that she was not in the best frame of mind to be answering questions, but that admissions had failed to go through the required paperwork on the matter (a hint of annoyance there interrupting the facade). He was interrupted by Dr. Awesome before his interrogation had really begun:

"OK, Amy, on your next contraction I need you to bear down."

Instructions were given for breathing and counting. I was to do the counting. The contraction came. The doctor said that Amy was doing a great job: awesome. The nurses gave their praise. The anesthesiologist went back to his questions. Had she ever been given anesthetic before? Amy said that she had, when she'd had her wisdom teeth out. Any problems? Everything was fine. He asked her about allergies, history of illnesses. Bronchitis last fall. OK. Another contraction. The breathing, counting, pushing. The anesthesiologist backed off.

Two more rounds of contractions and the boy was out. He was fine. He sucked in the air and whimpered like a cat. He turned from purple to pink just like that, just like he was supposed to.