Page 106 of Pregnant in Plaid
"How are we feeling?" she asks, pulling up a chair.
"Like I got hit by a truck," I admit.
"That's normal. You did great, by the way. Six hours of labor for a first baby is actually pretty good."
Six hours. It felt like six years.
Dr. Martinez flips through her notes. "So, let's talk about your daughter. She's doing very well, all things considered. She's breathing on her own, which is excellent. Her vitals are strong. We're monitoring her closely, but so far, everything looks good."
"How long will she need to stay in the NICU?" Trace asks.
"Typically, babies born at thirty-three weeks stay for about two to three weeks. It depends on how quickly she gains weight and learns to regulate her body temperature and feeding. But she's off to a good start."
Two to three weeks. In the hospital. Without my baby.
The reality of it crashes over me like a wave. I can't take her home. Can't hold her whenever I want. Can't do any of the things I imagined doing as a new mother because my body decided to evict her six weeks too early.
"Hey." Dr. Martinez's voice is gentle. "I know this isn't what you planned. But your daughter is healthy. That's what matters. And you'll get to spend time with her. The NICU encourages parental involvement. Skin-to-skin contact, helping with feedings, all of that. You won't be separated from her completely."
"When can I see her?" The question comes out desperate, raw.
"Once you're feeling up to it, we can take you down in a wheelchair. Maybe in an hour or so? Give the pain meds time to kick in."
An hour feels like an eternity.
But I nod, because what else can I do?
After Dr. Martinez leaves, Trace moves his chair closer to the bed. "You should eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway. For recovery. And—" He hesitates. "If you're planning to breastfeed, you need to keep your strength up."
Right. Breastfeeding. Because apparently having a baby seven weeks early wasn't enough chaos—now I have to figure out how to feed said baby when she's hooked up to machines in a different room.
"I don't know how to do any of this," I whisper.
"Me neither." Trace laces his fingers through mine. "But we'll figure it out."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." He kisses my knuckles. "We're a team now. Whether you like it or not."
"What if I'm terrible at this? What if I can't?—"
"Then you'll be terrible at it with me. And we'll get better together." He gives me a look that's so earnest, so certain, I want to believe him.
An hour later, the same nurse from earlier—Sarah—wheels me back down to the NICU. My second visit in less than twenty-four hours, and somehow it's no less overwhelming than the first.
Trace walks beside the wheelchair, one hand on my shoulder. He's been down three times already this morning, according to Brenda. Apparently, the nurses are starting to recognize him.
"You're becoming a regular," Sarah says with a smile as we enter the NICU.
The space is just as quiet as last night. Dimly lit, soft music playing. But it's daytime now, and there are more nurses moving between the incubators, more parents sitting in chairs beside their too-small babies.
Our daughter is still in the far corner. Still hooked up to what seems like a hundred wires. Still impossibly, terrifyingly small.
But she's here. She's alive. She's ours.
