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Title: Labor Day Summary: Can Scully ever go home? "Push Dana! On my count Dana ... 1 ... 2 ... 3..." the voice is loud, taking me away from my focus. "No more, I can't!" I exclaim. Exhaustion has overtaken any desire I may have had in the last 7 months to see my child. I feel my mother pull my hair back and rub my arms. "Yes you can, Dana. You can do this, dear." Her words and tone are soothing and comforting, but it doesn't take away the fact that I still don't want to push. I fight the age-old instinct to bear down, to bring a new life into this old world, and I sob, "I just can't. I just can't do it anymore. Make it stop. I just want to go home." I fall back into my mother's arms, ashamed of my surrender, crying bitter tears. "I'm so tired. This baby just doesn't want to come out. Just make it stop. Please!" "Dana." The fog is receding, yet I desperately want to escape into its murky depths. "Dana." The fog is still dissipating, but I fight the urge to walk toward the voice, wanting to succumb to sleep, to stop this incessant need to push. "Dana. Wake up. You have to listen, Dana. You need to push. You need to push with your contractions, and you need to listen to me. You can go home, Dana. But only when this baby is born. Do you hear me Dana?" The fog has lifted, and as I push myself forward, dutifully obeying the command of the doctor, I push with all my might. And I'm still not able to go home. "Stop! Make it stop!" I can't do this anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. It's too hard. Too hard to push. Too hard to give birth. Too hard to do this without Mulder. I lay back in my mother's arms, the feel of her hand brushing back the sweat of my brow comforting and annoying. "Stop Mom, please stop. I need to push again." As I force myself up again, intent on ending this insanity as soon as possible, I realize I'm not alone. I'm not sitting up on my own accord. It's my mother holding me up, keeping me focused, intent on seeing her grandchild. It should be Mulder. I bear down with all I have, pushing the life that is within, out. Anxious to welcome my child into this world, yet despondent there is no father to witness this day. "The baby's head is crowning, Dana." The doctor's voice is triumphant, assuring me that soon I can go home. "Here comes another contraction, Dana. When you start pushing Dana, I'm going to count, and I want you to push for as long as I count. Can you do that Dana?" I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can see the end. I can push until the doctor counts to 100, as long as it means I can go home. "Yes!" I exclaim threw clenched teeth and tightly shut eyes. "Okay. 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... okay STOP Dana!" "But I want to push! You wanted me to push!" I'm confused. I'm delirious. I just want to go home. "You're doing a great job Dana. Just hang in there a little bit longer. I promise you, this will end soon. The head is out now, and on your next push, we're going to work the shoulders out and then Baby can meet Mom. Okay, Dana?" I merely nod, the urge to push overriding my urgent need to leave. My mother helps me lean forward as I push. The fullness overwhelming me as it delivers pain that I have never experienced, and never want to experience again. And then the overwhelming urge to flee the hospital ceases to be a need, as the pain washes away, and I collapse into my mother's capable arms. "It's a boy, Dana!" The doctor exclaims. My ability to speak is gone, along with my ability to care. There isn't a committed partner cheering me on, encouraging me not to give up. There isn't an annoyingly handsome labor coach wiping my brow, whispering terms of endearment. There isn't a proud papa holding our son, counting his fingers and toes. And there isn't a man, a man I love, telling me of his love for me and our son. "He's beautiful Dana. You're beautiful Dana. Fox would be so proud." My mother's whispers are strange in my ear, as I stare up at the ceiling, the ministrations of my son's birth being administered to by the staff. "Would you like to hold your son, Mrs. Scully?" The nurse's question was jarring. Why would my mother want to hold my son? "Dana, dear? Would you like to hold your son?" It's my mother again, encouraging me to look away from the ceiling, to look toward my son, to gaze upon my future. A future without his father. "I can't, Mom." I sob as I turn away from my mother and my son. "I just can't." The room grows silent, the chatter of the nurses subdued and somber. "Yes, you can Dana. Yes you can." And then I'm holding my son, who is swaddled in warm flannel, his face the color of beets, his expression scrunched and inscrutable. And then I do something I never imagined. I fall hopelessly and madly in love with my son. Head over heels in love with this bundle of joy, who may never meet his father, but who will always know him. And then I realize I can go home. With my son. The End.
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