Page 103 of Pregnant in Plaid
"We have a daughter," I repeat, testing out the words. They feel surreal. Impossible.
Dr. Martinez is still working—afterbirth, stitches, all the medical aftermath. But all I can focus on is Patrice—exhausted, tear-streaked, beautiful Patrice—and the fact that somewhere down the hall, our daughter is being cared for by people who know what they're doing.
A nurse comes in after a few minutes. "She's in the NICU. She's doing well, all things considered. Breathing on her own, good heart rate. We'll keep her under observation, but so far, everything looks good."
"When can I see her?" Patrice asks.
"Once you're cleaned up and settled, we can take you down in a wheelchair."
It's another hour before that happens. An hour of cleanup and monitoring and me refusing to leave Patrice's side even when they tell me I should probably eat something or at least sit down somewhere that isn't the world's most uncomfortable chair.
Finally, a nurse named Sarah wheels Patrice down to the NICU, and I walk beside them, one hand on Patrice's shoulder.
The NICU is quiet, dimly lit, full of tiny babies in clear boxes hooked up to more wires than I can count. Our daughter is in the far corner, and as we approach, I get my first real look at her.
She's so small. Smaller than I imagined. Her eyes are closed, and she has a feeding tube and monitors, but she's breathing. Her tiny chest rises and falls with perfect rhythm.
"She's perfect," Patrice breathes.
I squeeze her hand. "She's going to be okay. She's a fighter. Like her mom."
Patrice leans her head against my arm, and we stand there—or rather, I stand and she sits in the wheelchair—watching our daughter breathe.
Tiny. Early. Ours.
Everything else, we'll figure out.
Chapter 16
Patrice
Everything hurts.
That's my first coherent thought when I surface from whatever painkiller-induced fog I've been floating in. Everything. Hurts.
My body feels like it's been through a war. Which, technically, it has. Labor is basically warfare without the medals or the victory parade. Just pain, exhaustion, and the vague sense that you've survived something you definitely shouldn't have attempted without backup.
Also, I'm pretty sure my vagina has filed for divorce.
"Hey." Trace's voice cuts through the haze. "You're awake."
I pry my eyes open. He's sitting in the world's most uncomfortable-looking chair beside my bed, still wearing the same clothes from—what? Yesterday? This morning? Time has become a meaningless concept.
His hair is sticking up in about seven different directions, he has what looks like dried coffee stains on his shirt, and there are dark circles under his eyes that suggest he hasn't slept since the Clinton administration.
"You look terrible," I croak.
"You're one to talk." But he's smiling, and he reaches for my hand. "How do you feel?"
"Like I pushed a human out of my body. Oh wait." I try to sit up more and immediately regret it. "Ow. Ow. Why does everything hurt?"
"According to the nurse, that's normal. Something about your body going through major trauma." He adjusts my pillows, gentle despite his obvious exhaustion. "Want more pain meds?"
"Is that even a question? Yes. All the pain meds. Every single one."
He presses the call button, and Brenda appears moments later with the efficiency of someone who's been doing this job way too long to be surprised by anything.
"Pain?" she asks, already checking my chart.
