I once watched puppies being born by C section. The Bassett had been struggling with seven oversized pups and needed a hand. She was in serious distress by the time she was brought in and the Vet wasn't sure the pups would survive.
I stood with the others, towel between my hands, ready to help. One by one as the amniotic sac was slit open, little squirming, messy bits of newness were passed around. One of the smallest, one of the last, was entrusted to me.
I began to vigorously rub and wipe her, drawing her out of her world. There were so many perfect little puppy details about her: markings so pretty they seemed painted, a tiny pink nose with carefree crinkles, paws that would fit on the tip of my finger. But she had no breath.
My massaging continued, head-back-sides-belly-legs-face, faster and faster. I held her wrapped and dry in a towel and swung her between my legs, back and forth, as fast as I could, to clear her throat and stimulate her body. With my heart full of hope that this puppy would catch her breath, the swinging went on: rub, touch, swing, check. I wanted more than anything to feel her first breath in my hands. .
It's hard to wait for things we love to take hold of life. We feel anxious and afraid as they flounder and gasp. We might lose them, we think; there is too much at stake, we need to step in. But that little bitty she-pup in the palm of my hand taught a great lesson: I am only the stage crew in somebody else's life. It isn't my job.
All those years ago in the surgery room of that Veterinary Clinic, that little pup who came to life let me enjoy her cry of objection and welcome her home.
NMcC
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