Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters in this work of fiction. No profit is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: Tag to the final episode of the series, "The Last One". Inspired by the following bit of dialogue: "You ever wonder which is more painful – giving birth or getting kicked in the nuts? …No one will ever experience both…One of life's unanswerable questions." – Chandler Bing
Kick in the Nuts
"You ever wonder which is more painful – giving birth or getting kicked in the nuts? …No one will ever experience both…One of life's unanswerable questions."
As far as famous last words go, Chandler figures that those are pretty damn good ones. He'd be a little more ecstatic about it, except for the fact that he's in SO MUCH PAIN.
Still, as he's being wheeled down the hospital corridor – with Monica shouting at him to breathe, and his mother holding his hand, apologizing profusely for never having told him about this possible side-effect to the 'vitamins' she'd taken while pregnant with him – he's having a side-bar debate with himself, and hasn't yet decided which is more painful, though he's definitely leaning toward the side of giving birth being more painful than being kicked in the nuts.
His mother pats his hand as he's wheeled into the delivery room. "Chandler, how you doing, baby?"
'Just fine, mommy dearest,' he thinks, but he smiles, or attempts to, and says, "Fine," between a hee-hee-hee, and a hoo-hoo-hoo as Monica coaches him.
"You're doing so good, honey," Monica says, rubbing his shoulders as he's being transferred to the hospital bed.
It feels good, but at the same time he wants to slap her hands away, because it makes him feel claustrophobic, and he doesn't want to be touched and soothed and told how good he's doing. Instead, he smiles; showing all of his teeth, and Chandler's face feels like it's going to fall off. He can't remember a time he's smiled so much, or so hard, when he's felt like doing the exact opposite.
The past nine months have been little more than a dizzying whirlwind of mixed emotions for him, so much so that Chandler isn't sure whether he's coming or going anymore. When he'd woken up earlier that morning – spasms tweaking his distended belly – he'd ignored the little bursts of pain, because pain had become a common theme in his life. During the last two months of his 'freak' pregnancy – he' d known that giving into that particular kink of Monica's (involving fried bacon, chocolate ice-cream and whipped topping) had been a bad idea – he'd been bed-ridden, doctor's orders.
His friends – and this never ceased to amaze him when he thought about this – had, after the initial shock had worn off, been very supportive of him. Phoebe had visited him often – sharing the ups and downs of her own, 'normal' pregnancy – as had Joey, Ross and Rachel.
It had been Phoebe who'd noticed that something was amiss, when an especially strong and painful spasm had torn through Chandler's abdomen, causing him to double-up in pain. She'd called Monica, even though Chandler had told her not to disturb his wife at work, and his mother, and then he'd been rushed to the hospital. Michael had come over to watch the twins – that had been part of their plan.
"Breathe, honey," Monica whispers, her lips brushing against the outer edge of his ear, her fingers working through his sweaty hair. "That's it," she encourages when he does the breathing exercises that he'd learned during Lamaze classes.
It doesn't help – the breathing – the pain grows worse, and he wishes that he hadn't provoked the god of pregnancies with his awkward comment to Erica when she was giving birth to their children. He was foolish, and right now, all he wants to do is wake up to find out that this is nothing more than a nightmare.
"Is everyone ready?" the doctor asks, and there's an insanely bright smile on his face that Chandler finds annoying.
"Yes," Monica and his mother say together, and Chandler squeezes his mother's hand tighter as he nods.
He's not ready for this. Not by a long shot. Hormonal therapy and discussing how long he would like to continue the treatments after the baby is born– a little girl if the pictures of the ultrasound are accurate – is born – haven't really prepared him for becoming mother and father to his baby all in one.
He'd opted not to continue the hormonal therapy, because the thought of breastfeeding his baby – though, he'd grown close to her over these past nine months as she'd grown inside the 'false' womb that his mother's prenatal drugs had given him a genetic-predisposition for – had been too much for him. He wasn't even sure how to feel about it all, even though he and Monica had spent countless hours hashing out the details, and he'd shared far more of his emotions with her than he was comfortable with. She'd been supportive – even when he'd been ill-tempered and dealing with far more emotions than he knew existed.
"We'll have Dr. Ramon administer the epidural, and then we'll see if we can't speed things along for you, Mr. Bing," the doctor says in a much too cheerful voice.
"Sounds good," Chandler says, and grimaces when he's hit by a particularly strong contraction that lasts for far too long.
'Definitely worse than being kicked in the 'nads,' he thinks, and almost cries-laughs when the answer comes to him in a wave of unbearable pain. Never again will he joke when Monica, or any other woman, complains about how painful and uncomfortable she during her menstrual cycle. Even if she's only experiencing a fraction of the pain he's in now – it's more than what anyone should have to endure on a monthly basis.
When Dr. Ramon administers the epidural, it takes several long moments before the pain starts to dull. And then everything happens far too quickly for Chandler to follow.
He focuses, not on the doctors working on delivering his little girl, but on Monica, watching her face as it registers first worry, then awe, and then, finally, when the baby – a bloody bundle of pale pink skin with a shock of dark hair – takes her first breath and squawks.
He isn't aware that there are tears streaming down his cheeks until Monica's brushing them away with a thumb, and peppering him with kisses, telling him how wonderful he is and how perfect and beautiful their little girl – Judith Muriel – is. He swallows, and blinks back tears when his little girl, bundled up in the receiving blanket that had been a gift from Rachel and Ross, is placed on his chest.
"Hey there," he manages to coax the words out of dry lips, and smiles when his little girl blinks and yawns at him, shoving a tiny fist into her mouth, and gumming at it. She's awake and far more alert than Chandler had realized she'd be. It's amazing, and he's suddenly overwhelmed with more of those pesky emotions that he doesn't really want to deal with.
He pays no attention to the doctors buzzing around him, wrapping up whatever else is involved in the necessary C-section. He's absorbed in the little girl who's eyeing him with a puzzled look on her face – forehead wrinkled, eyes nearly crossed, and fist firmly stuffed in her mouth – and it hits him that she came from him.
Up until this moment, Chandler'd been in steadfast denial. He can't deny anything now, with his little girl ensconced firmly in his arms as he coos nonsensically at her. She's beautiful, perfect and the spitting image of Monica.
"She's beautiful," he breathes out, pressing his lips to the top of her soft, downy hair.
He turns when he feels a warm hand on his cheek, and shares a smile with Monica. He knows that his wife's itching to hold their daughter, but he's not ready to turn little J.M. over to her just yet. She's got the hand not fisted in her mouth, wrapped around one of his fingers and her dark eyelashes are fluttering against her cheeks as she tries unsuccessfully to stay awake.
"Can I hold her?" Monica asks, and it's the hesitant tone in her voice, more than anything else, which makes Chandler give the little girl up.
He feels the loss of his little girl, lying peacefully in his arms immediately, and the ache in his heart is like a kick to the chest. He doesn't say anything, feeling foolish, because he knows that Monica loves their little girl as much as he does.
After a few minutes, during which J.M. is passed over to her ecstatic grandmother, Monica places the little girl on his chest and the heavy ache eases. Exhaustion, like he's never felt before pulls him under, and he sleeps.
Minutes, hours, days later, Chandler wakes when he feels the slight weight lifted from his chest, and he momentarily scrabbles at thin air, reaching for her.
"Easy, Chandler, it's okay, Auntie Phoebe's holding her now," Monica reassures him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, and he relaxes, his eyes searching the room until he spies Phoebe.
She's holding his little girl like she's the most precious thing in the world, smiling down at her, and singing her a song that she'd written especially for this occasion. Chandler can't make out the words, but a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
"She's beautiful, man," Joey's voice has him turning his head to the side. His friend pats him on the shoulder, and then, shrugging, pulls him into a hug, which he returns with more fervency than he would have had he not still been hopped up on hormones.
"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Chandler speaks the words into his friend's shoulder, before being released and leaning back against the hospital bed which Monica has raised so that he can sit up and enjoy the company of their friends and family.
He tires far more quickly than he's comfortable with, and he yearns to have his little girl – being passed from one adult to another – back in his arms, so that he can sleep, assured that she's safe and where she belongs. It's a strange feeling, and he wonders if this is how every mother feels – incomplete without her child resting in her arms.
"Alright everyone," Monica says, her voice loud and sharp in the room. "Thank you for visiting, we love you, but right now we'd like a little time alone with our daughter."
Chandler gives her a lopsided, grateful smile, and gamely allows himself to be kissed and patted and hugged as their guests leave the hospital room. He sighs deeply, and exchanges a knowing look with Monica when the door closes behind Monica's mother and father as they reluctantly take their leave. He knows that they'll be back tomorrow – the whole lot of them – but, for now, it's just him and Monica and their precious little girl, and he's more than happy to just revel in that.
His heart skips a beat, and he breathes a little easier when his little girl is placed, once more, in his arms, where he can protect her. Monica lowers the bedrail, and climbs up next to him, wrapping her arms around the both of them, resting her head in the crook of his neck.
"I love you," she murmurs.
"I love you, too," Chandler echoes, pressing his lips to his wife's, and then baby's forehead.
They fall asleep that way, unaware of the picture of perfection that they make, until weeks later, when Rachel – who'd returned to the room to fetch Emma's stuffed bear that she'd forgotten during their forced exodus – found them wrapped up in each other and snapped off a few photos of the slumbering family with her phone.
When he wakes, Chandler's aware of a dull ache in his lower back and abdomen, and he thinks that he knows the answer to the question that he'd foolishly posed to Erica three years ago. Yes, giving birth is far more painful than being kicked in the nuts, but…at least with the pain of childbirth, comes a reward that more than makes up for it.
'When you're kicked in the nuts,' Chandler thinks, 'though relief does come – eventually – the pain is, while maybe not forgotten, easily dismissed. When giving birth, the pain is all-consuming, and there are moments when you think that death would be a welcome alternative to the seemingly unending pain, but then, when the pain subsides, you realize it's a pain that has been worth something. A pain that you won't ever forget, because if you did, then it would diminish the joy that had followed it.'
At least, that's what Chandler thinks as he looks at his little girl, slumbering in his arms, and presses a kiss to her soft skin.
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