Page 10 of Absolution

She helps me take a few sips from a straw. I can barely lift my arms. My whole body feels heavy, pinned down. Like someone poured cement over my chest and stomach.

There’s a deep, dull ache low in my belly. I reach down, fingertips brushing stiff gauze and surgical tape. C-section. Guess that’s how they got the babies out after I passed out.

I don’t know how women just bounce back from this. I can’t even sit up straight. Every breath pulls at the stitches. Even blinking feels like a full-body effort.

The door flies open.

Kyle bursts in, looking wrecked, shirt wrinkled, coat missing, tie shoved in a pocket. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s a mess. He stops short when he sees me, and for a second, something almost like guilt flickers in his face.

I glance toward the window. It’s bright outside. I remember the time on the phone when I called 911, it was 2:03 a.m.

“What happened?” he rushes over to the bed, breath catching.

“My water broke,” I say flatly.

His hand finds mine, but I pull away. I’m too tired. Too raw.

“What were you doing?” he asks.

“Sleeping,” I snap. “What were you doing?”

He looks away. “We had a big case. I fell asleep at the office. I’m so sorry, Jackie, I-”

I shake my head. No. I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when I had to go through all of this alone.

The door creaks open again. Dr. Stevens walks in, clipboard in hand.

His face is calm, but something in his eyes makes me sit up straighter, well, try to. My body protests instantly, tugging at something deep and sharp near my incision.

“You’re stable now,” he says, stepping to the foot of the bed. “Vitals are good. Bleeding’s under control. But there’s something we need to discuss before we talk about the babies.”

The machines around me hum. I hear them clearer than his voice.

“You had a significant amount of internal bleeding when you came in,” he says. “We did everything we could to manage it conservatively, but your uterus wasn’t contracting the way we needed it to. You went into haemorrhagic shock.”

I stare at him, trying to follow the words. My mom touches my shoulder beside me.

“We had to perform an emergency hysterectomy,” he continues gently. “It was the only way to stop the bleeding and save your life.”

My breath catches. “You mean… you took out my…?”

He nods slowly. “We had no choice. You had a condition called uterine atony, your uterus stopped contracting entirely after delivery. The bleeding was severe, and you were losing blood too fast.”

I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest. My hands go to my stomach, still swollen. I shouldn’t care; I already have four babies. But I do, I want to cry, scream, deny it but nothing comes out. Just air.

“We saved your ovaries,” he adds, like it might help. “If you ever want more children down the road, surrogacy is a possibility.”

I nod, but I can’t hear anymore, “My babies?”

“Your daughters are doing well,” he says. “At 28 weeks, their lungs are underdeveloped, but they’re responding to ventilation. We’ve started both on CPAP, continuous positive airway pressure to help them breathe, and we’re giving them surfactant to improve lung function. They’ll be in the NICU for a while, but they’re stable.”

I nod, tears sliding down my cheeks.

“The boys,” he continues, slower now, “were smaller. Less weight, shorter gestation response.”

I clutch the blanket.

“Your son Baby C,” he says, “has a condition called persistent pulmonary hypertension of the newborn, PPHN. One of his blood vessels hasn’t transitioned properly after birth. We’vestarted him on oxygen and nitric oxide therapy to help oxygenate his blood. He’s critical but stable.”

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