Page 129 of Twisted Addiction
A chill ran through me. I had no one. No one to sign, no one to hold my hand, no one I could trust to protect us. “I have no one,” I whispered, voice cracking, tears streaking my cheeks. “Just... just do it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said gently, tone firm. “It’s protocol. Someone has to authorize the surgery.”
The words felt like a knife twisting in my chest.
My hands shook as anger and desperation surged through me. “I have no one!” I snapped, voice sharp.
In a flash of defiance, I grabbed the pen from her, propping myself on the bed despite the burning in my limbs, the monitors beeping wildly at my movement.
I seized the consent form and, hand trembling, scrawled my signature across it. “Will that do?” I demanded.
Dr. Patel’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise passing over her composed features.
Then, with a slow nod, she gestured to the nurses. “Prepare the OR for an emergency C-section. We’re proceeding under patient authorization.”
A nurse approached, syringe in hand, moving briskly but carefully. “We’ll administer a spinal anesthetic to numb you from the waist down,” she said, swabbing my lower back. “You’ll be awake, but you won’t feel the incision.”
I groaned, every muscle taut, as another contraction ripped through me.
The needle’s prick was sharp, sudden, then a wave of cool numbness spread across my lower body.
Relief mingled with terror.
The blue drape was set across my chest, shielding me from the surgical site, yet my mind raced with only one thought: Please, let my child be okay.
Every sound—clinks of instruments, the murmur of nurses, the steady beeping of the monitor—was magnified in the quiet tension of the room.
My hands trembled, fingers clutching the sterile sheet, heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
Time blurred—minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell.
The pain in my stomach flared and eased in jagged waves as the nurses worked beyond the blue surgical curtain.
I was alone, every sensation magnified—the ache of my body, the raw sting of stitches, the hum of machines surrounding me.
No hand to hold.
No voice to soothe me.
The weight of my isolation pressed against my chest, almost unbearable.
Then the curtain moved.
A nurse stepped through, her face alight with a gentle smile, and cradled a tiny, swaddled bundle in her arms. “It’s a boy,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she approached.
Tears burned my cheeks as she placed him in my arms.
His skin was translucent, almost glowing under the fluorescent light, and his chest rose and fell in delicate, shallow breaths.
A faint whimper slipped from his lips, a fragile melody that pierced through the fog of my exhaustion and fear.
“A miracle,” I whispered, clutching him tightly, my heart swelling in a way that overshadowed every pain, every betrayal.
The nurse’s expression shifted, the joy dimming with the weight of reality.
“He’s premature, born at thirty-two weeks,” she said gently, yet firmly. “He’s at risk for respiratory distress syndrome and neonatal jaundice. We need to transfer him to the NICU immediately for monitoring, oxygen therapy, and possible phototherapy to stabilize his lungs and liver.”
I nodded, my throat tight, swallowing hard as they carefully lifted him from my arms and wheeled him away.
