Page 182 of Not Another Yesterday
I followed the three nurses pushing her stretcher like my legs were on autopilot, moving faster than I could think. I’d driven here like a maniac, flooring it through red lights, flying over potholes, not caring if I wrecked my shitty car or got pulled over. Every second mattered. Every single fucking second.
As soon as Cat told me she was bleeding and I saw the sheets—saw how much blood there was—I knew we were in real trouble. I might still be learning, but I knew enough that this wasn’t spotting. This wasn’t some harmless pregnancy symptom.
She was hemorrhaging.
She was pale, drenched in sweat, her skin clammy and cold, and by the time I pulled up to the hospital, her lips were tinged with blue and she was barely conscious. The sweatpants I helped her into were soaked through.
The entire drive, I kept whipping my head between her and the road, trying to time her contractions. I could see them coming, how her body would go rigid, how even half-unconscious she’d moan in pain. I kept pressing harder on the gas like I could outrun the clock, outrun what was happening to her.
I held her hand all the way through until they made me let go. Until they wheeled her into the treatment area and told me to stay behind. One of the nurses asked me questions in that too-calm voice they use when they’re bracing for the worst: Cat’s age, how far along she was, if I was the father.
Then she asked if Cat and I had been in a physical altercation.
Like maybeIhad done this to her.
I almost lost it. My fists clenched, jaw tight enough to crack a molar, but I kept my voice steady when I said, “No. I would never.”
She made me sign some papers, consent for emergency surgery, blood transfusions—as if I’d get to make decisions like that for Cat. But I signed away like my damn life depended on it. It does. Cat’s life is my life. She has to make it through this.
And then I was left here. Alone. On a hard black plastic chair that feels like it was designed to make you more aware of your body just so you can suffer inside it. An entire fucking hour now. I sit. I pace. I sit again. I try to call Jen to tell her what’s going on, but I hang up when her voicemail kicks in. She can’t find out that her daughter’s in the hospital from a message like that.
She needs to hear it from me. And I need to be able tosayit.
I’ve tried my dad a few times, too. No luck. Everyone’s probably still sleeping.
But I’m wide awake.
Wide awake and terrified.
I’m restless and on edge, jittering with adrenaline and dread. I feel completely out of control, like I’m trapped in a nightmare with no way to wake up.
Finally, a doctor approaches me. Her face is kind, and I stand quickly from my chair, my body coiled and ready—braced for either relief or devastation.
Her voice is warm, gentle. She’s clearly trying to soften the blow, but even before she speaks, I know it’s not good news.
“Cat has suffered a severe placental abruption,” she says.
I frown, blinking at her. The words mean nothing to me. Abruption. It sounds violent. Wrong. My brain can’t connect the dots, can’t keep up.
Her hand comes to my shoulder, settling there gently. “We did an ultrasound,” she continues softly, “and unfortunately, we were unable to detect a heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”
Heartbeat.
The word hits me like a wrecking ball. I stare at her, waiting for my mind to make sense of what she’s saying. Is she talking about Cat? Or the baby? Or both?
“It’s rare, but not unheard of,” she says, her tone apologetic, like she wishes she could change what’s already happened. “The severity of the abruption deprived the baby of oxygen.”
The baby. Not Cat.
I start to understand.
I feel my heart lurch and falter, like it’s skipping beats, trying to keep pace with the flood of realization. The baby didn’t make it.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats. “We’re prepping Cat for an emergency C-section to deliver the baby and get control of the bleeding. Would you… would you like to see your son after delivery?”
My son.
A boy.
