Holding Still for as Long as Possible by Zoe Whittall

houses I’d been in, immaculate houses some of them, even though the elderly people inside could hardly move.
    The best part of my job was the time between when you got the call and when you were inside the house, and you wondered what you were going to see. I liked meeting people and seeing where they lived and imagining why they lived that way. If people called for you, they were generally happy to see you. People who might have been hostile to you on the street treated you with respect. They got out of your way.
    Right before I walked into someone’s house, I wondered what kind of décor they’d have. Maybe they’d have a really cool painting, or a strange collection of stuff. One time I spent an hour talking to a famous artist in her late eighties, in her condo overlooking the lake. She was fascinating. Medics get to glimpse these random lives lived.
    Our first call today was on my street, a woman I’d seen with her small red dog in Trinity Bellwoods Park. She was giving birth, and the midwife was late, and the woman was a potential high risk so she called us just in case. Her husband was a small man wearing a robe, who let us in, a kid of about six trailing behind him. We carried the stretcher in, and mom was in bed, aglow and panting, the size of a truck.
    After the usual introductions, I asked, “So, how can we help you get to the ambulance?”
    â€œOh, I’m not going to the hospital,” she said between exhalations.
    My partner, a cute androgynous girl called Mandy, looked at me, brows furrowed. It was our second shift together. “But, uh, that’s what we do. We’re here to transport you.”
    â€œNope,” mom said, smiling. “I’m having the baby here. The midwife will be along shortly. She’s just stuck in traffic.”
    Mandy and I stood awkwardly. I had the birth kit out, but I’d only ever used it in practice. I’d witnessed a birth in the ER when I was a student, and that was all.
    â€œHave you ever helped with a birth before?” the mom asked, perhaps sensing our hesitation. The father curled up on the bed beside her.
    â€œUm, no,” I said, hoping Mandy had helped pop out a few.
    â€œMe neither.”
    Mandy suddenly looked about four years old and terrified. The day before, I’d watched her pick up a drunk guy who’d been punched in the face and throw him on the stretcher. When he called her a fucking dyke, she just grinned and shoved him harder. She weighed maybe a buck twenty at most, and he was over six feet tall, but she managed to strap him down. We hadn’t even really needed to call the cops. She was tough. It was kind of funny to see her whimper in the face of a birth.
    The mother smiled warmly at us. She reached out and touched my arm. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.”
    I laughed. “Awesome. So, what can I do to help you?”
    The husband was telling his daughter what to expect from the birth. He looked up at me and motioned towards the dresser. “The olive oil, there’s a bottle right there beside the mirror. Can you rub it on the perineum? To prevent tearing.”
    I tried hard not to burst out laughing. Mandy turned away from the parents, towards the front window, and bit her lip. I could tell she was trying to hold back too.
    â€œOh, sure!” I said, a little too eagerly, though in truth I was scared. I willed the midwife to hurry up and get there.
    I poured the oil onto my gloved hand and tried to look like I knew what the fuck I was doing. A pregnant woman with her legs spread is probably one of the most intimidating sights to behold, let alone when you have to go in and help everything work smoothly, so to speak. I managed the task somehow, asking questions about the mother’s medical history and the last birth.
    Once the midwife arrived, the birth happened quickly.
    Pregnancy calls were probably the best ones, I decided. Excitement and happiness