It begins with a text “our con’t is in labour”. 5 little words, and my leisurely morning routine picks up speed. I grab a pair of scrubs out of the closet, stick my head in the shower for all of one minute, gather my hairbrush, elastics and deodorant and trot out to my desk with my hair dripping down my back. My deskmate is already there gathering her belongings into her bag as I stuff scrubs and assorted toiletries into mine. Less than 10 minutes after she sent the text we are on our way out the gate, down the street and into a taxi. We arrive at the clinic and the board is filled with patients – 3 of them already having the designation “con’t” written beside them. Our own continuity patient “R” is waiting quietly for us to arrive. Rahel will be the one to catch this baby, and she begins the process of checking vitals and examining our patient. I grab a hairbrush and attempt to corral my hair in a manner that will keep it out of my face for the rest of the day – this is R’s first baby, I expect we may be here for awhile. Rahel comes out with the report – R is still fairly early in labour – far enough along to stay, but we could be waiting for awhile yet. Unfortunately she is also presenting with an elevated blood pressure. While Rahel stays to take care of her, I head upstairs to a clinic shift that I am scheduled for – my phone is close and Rahel will text if she needs me. 4 hours later, R’s contractions are picking up, they are definitely painful, and even though she is only 16 years old, she barley makes any sounds. Still, it will be a little while yet so I head out to find some lunch for Rahel and myself. Rahel continuously battles R’s elevated blood pressure – encouraging water and food, and positions to help her relax. We also manage to eat some lunch. It doesn’t actually seem so long before Rahel suddenly calls out “SROM!” R’s water has broken. A couple more of us head into the cubicle. One grabs the chart and I begin pulling on gloves. Rahel confirms that R is ready to push, the baby almost here. I rest the doppler probe against R’s belly and smile at a reasurring “tock, tock, tock”. R does a wonderful job and as darkness begins spreading across the sky outside, Rahel hands me a screaming baby girl. As I dry her off she screams even louder and grabs at my rubbing hands – an almost perfect score for this little one. My grin for the baby girl begins to wane as I take note of the activity picking up around me. Rahel calmly scoops handfuls of blood into a basin, reporting the amounts as she does. Needle caps are snapped off and the needles pushed into R’s thighs. As I prepare the cord to be cut I hear “transport forms” spoken in the background. Blood continues to flow and I focus back on the screaming baby girl, repositioning her on her mom. “C’mon, you can do it” I think silently to myself. She gapes her mouth wide and I press her towards her goal. The clock is ticking as people flow around me, preparing a stretcher, IV, forms. The ambulance roars to life outside. I hold her little head in my hand, and eventually she sucks, her little jaw squeezing once, twice. Too soon I have to lift her away, reassuring her mom that we will take good care of her for the next few hours.