Relax, This Will Be Easy, Mydei

The air inside the wooden house was warm, scented with eucalyptus oil and the smell of pine burning in the fireplace. The creaking of wood and the hiss of the fire created a soothing symphony, a stark contrast to the groans of pain coming from Mydei's lips. The man was lying flat on his back directly on the hard, cold wooden floor. Every curve of his spine pressed against the solid planks, every protrusion of his hip bones felt as if it would form an indentation in the unyielding wood. Cold sweat drenched his skin, dripping from his temples to his jaw, mingling with his ragged breaths. Each time the night wind crept through a crack in the window, his body shivered, even though the burning heat from within his belly made the sweat pour incessantly. His muscles were taut, tightening and trembling, as if every nerve was screaming under the unrelenting pressure.

His large, hard stomach felt like a living, pulsating stone, each throb like a wave crashing from within. The skin of his belly was stretched taut, gleaming with a layer of constant sweat. Every contraction made it rise and fall, as if setting a cruel rhythm he had to follow without refusal.

He hugged his stomach tightly, his body arching forward, as if by embracing that part of himself he could dampen the merciless pain. His fingers gripped his own skin—slippery, hot, and tight—until his nails nearly left red marks. But the grip offered no help, only emphasizing how his body was being controlled by something far stronger than himself.

“Aah! This… this is it!” he hissed through clenched teeth, his face tense. His gaze fell upon his own stomach, full of determination yet haunted by fear. He knew the turning point had come. His body no longer gave him a choice.

The pain came in waves—each stronger than the last. The urge to push burned in his pelvis, an ancient instinct he couldn't resist. His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling rapidly, almost sobbing. He groaned, lowered his head, trying to follow the rhythm of his own body.

In his mind, he recalled the voices of friends who had walked this path of suffering. "The process is heavy, Mydei. But you are strong. Listen to your body… don't rush."

But how could he hold back when every contraction was like a storm shaking his insides, pressing from within outward? One of his hands braced against the floor, his fingers clawing at the cold, hard wood beneath him. The sound of his nails scraping left faint marks on the surface, a small testament to the agony tearing him apart. The muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened, veins bulging as he struggled to keep his body from collapsing completely.

Another contraction hit—stronger, longer. His body arched forward, his hips shaking violently. His breath broke into suppressed sobs, his lips trembling to hold back a scream that nearly escaped. He bit the corner of his own lip hard until he tasted salt, blood mixing with sweat on the tip of his tongue.

His solid stomach tightened as if a great force from within was pushing to get out. The feeling of fullness became more urgent, making his pelvis feel like it was about to split. He hugged his stomach with one hand, fingers pressing into his own skin, while his other hand continued to claw the floor, searching for a grip that was never strong enough.

“Ngghh… hahh…!” he groaned, his breath dragging long before shattering into a coarse cry. His head lolled back, his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his face.

The urge to push came more wildly, hitting him from inside like waves giving no chance to breathe. He felt his body moving beyond the control of his mind, a primal instinct forcing every muscle to work as hard as possible.

“Aaahhh—hhnghh!” his groan echoed in the narrow space, making the wooden walls vibrate faintly. His face turned red, veins in his neck bulging, his eyes burning with unending torment. His abdominal muscles tightened like steel, while his hips shook, forced to withstand a pressure that nearly tore him apart.

He briefly remembered his friends' advice, but dismissed it with a bitter laugh in his heart. "Ah, they're exaggerating. I just need to push harder, faster. It's just about willpower."

With a deep groan, he gathered all his strength. His abdominal muscles hardened, his face reddened, and he pushed with all his might. He imagined his baby sliding out, and he would welcome it in their warm wooden home.

The next contraction came like a storm ravaging his entire body. Mydei arched his back, his hips shaking violently, and he was compelled to push again even though his body was nearly exhausted. His breath was heavy, choked, mixed with a long groan.

As he pushed with all his strength, something began to be felt below: an incredibly strong, stiff, and solid pressure, as if a large stone was trying to force its way through. His body tensed, his eyes wide with the new sensation.

“Ahhh—hhhgghhh!” he cried out, his hands gripping his own thighs. There was a burning sensation, a stinging heat, making the skin below feel stretched to its limit. He staggered, trembled, then jerked when he realized—his baby's head was beginning to emerge.

Slowly, very slowly, he could feel that hard bulge pushing its way out. The gateway of life stretched, his flesh opening gradually, until he could almost imagine the shape of that small head beginning to break through. A sting mixed with relief, as if his body was burning from within but at the same time bringing hope.

"I told you… this is easy…" he uttered between groans, his lips trembling against the pain piercing to the bone. He hissed, his hands grabbing his own thighs, trying to give strength to his nearly collapsing body. "Just a few more… pushes… the head is out…"

The sounds of his own body echoed in his ears: stretching flesh, a pounding heartbeat, ragged breaths. The heat intensified, the burning becoming almost unbearable, but he refused to yield. A thin, confident smile appeared on his sweat-drenched face, though his eyes were glistening.

"Now just… one… more push!" he cried out with the last bit of strength gathered from the depths of his courage. His body tensed, his back arched, and he prepared to give it everything—believing that this final push would bring the cry of life into their wooden home.

Gasping for breath and with a body already weak, Mydei felt a new wave of contractions coming like a tsunami. It felt as if his entire stomach was being tightened by an iron cord twisted from within.

"It has to work this time," he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse.

One push. He bit his lower lip until it bled. His hands gripped the hard wooden floor. Every muscle from his back to his thighs was maximally tense. He pushed with all his remaining energy, concentrating on the point of pressure between his legs. But after his long groan subsided, all he felt was a slight shift, not the significant progress he hoped for. The baby's head was like a reef only slightly shifted by the waves.

Two pushes. The contraction hadn't fully subsided. Mydei took short, quick breaths before daring to push again. This time, with a louder cry, he focused his energy. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, he could almost feel the baby's head moving forward, maybe just a few millimeters, a progress invisible to the eye. Yet, as soon as the push ended, the sensation vanished. The small progress felt futile.

Three, four, five pushes… He kept pushing like a man possessed, following each peak of the contractions that came relentlessly. Each push was followed by a groan of despair. His face was already wet with tears and sweat. Between pushes, he felt with a trembling hand. It was true, there was progress, but it was minimal, so very minimal. The baby's head still only showed a small part.

Up to the tenth push. Mydei was almost losing consciousness. His head was dizzy, his vision spotted. When the next contraction hit, he pushed with the last remnants of his strength, a long, desperate scream escaping his throat. And then, the most terrifying thing happened.

As the pressure from the push faded, he felt a horrifying sensation: the baby's head actually receded, slipping back slightly into the birth canal. It was as if all his hard work, all the pain he had endured, was in vain. The hard-won few millimeters of progress were lost in an instant.

"Dammit... no...!" he cried out weakly.

What came out wasn't the baby, but an immense weariness and frustration that made him want to give up. His whole body shook violently, not from cold, but from extreme exhaustion. His muscles felt like mush, scorched.

"Why?!" he screamed in his heart, "I pushed as hard as I could!"

He felt between his legs. His heart stopped. There was something there. But not the whole baby's head. Just a small bulge, the size of an egg, hard and hairy. Only about 20% of the baby's head had emerged. The rest was still trapped.

Two hours had passed since he first started pushing. Two hours that felt like an eternity of torment in the warmth of this house. Each subsequent push became more torturous, burning every muscle, yet yielding no results. The baby's head wouldn't advance. It felt like pushing a boulder that refused to move. The firelight from the fireplace danced on the wooden walls, witnessing his silent struggle.

His resolve began to crumble, replaced by a cold fear seeping into his bones.

"No… it can't be like this," he gasped, panting. Tears of panic began to wash his cheeks. He was alone. His partner was on an emergency trip, trapped in a snowstorm outside. No midwife, no family. Only him, the hissing fire in the fireplace, and his reluctant baby.

Every time a contraction came, he screamed in pain and fear, pushing with his dwindling strength, hoping this time it would work. But all that happened was the baby's head moving forward a millimeter, only to seem stuck again. The intense burning and pressure made him almost go insane in the warmth of the house that suddenly felt like an oven.

He was trapped in a cycle of hell: contraction, push, failure, exhaustion, and fear.

"Help…," he pleaded weakly to the silence of the wooden house, to the memory-filled photos on the walls. "I can't…"

In the depths of his despair, the most primal instinct of fatherhood spoke louder than his confidence. He remembered a fragment from birthing class. "Don't push with your face. Push from your lower abdomen. And… don't rush. Listen to your body. Breathe."

Mydei took a deep breath, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. He smelled the soothing scent of wood. He swallowed his pain. When the next contraction came, he didn't immediately scream and push frantically. He waited for its peak, then, with terrifying focus, he directed all his energy downward, towards where the baby was trying to come out.

It was no longer about being strong, but about being smart. About cooperating with his body, not fighting it.

He felt a slight progress. Very slight. But it was enough to give him a glimmer of hope, like the small flame in the fireplace that kept burning.

With tears and sweat mingling, Mydei continued to fight. Alone in his warm wooden house. He was the battlefield, and also the warrior. Every push was a battle, every breath a strategy. The struggle was still long and bloody, but arrogance had given way to humility, and brute force had been replaced by the perseverance and instinct of a father fighting for the life of his child.