Page 118 of Pregnant in Plaid
"If she continues at this rate, yes. About seven days." Dr. Martinez leans back in her chair. "I know that seems fast, but honestly, she's exceeding all our expectations. Some babies need weeks in the NICU. Brooklyn just needed a little extra time to catch up."
Seven days.
Seven days until we're responsible for keeping a human alive.
"What do we need to do?" Trace asks, his voice steadier than I feel.
Dr. Martinez pulls out a checklist. "You'll both need to demonstrate competency with feeding, diaper changes, and basic care. We'll do a CPR certification class. Car seat test. And we'll make sure you're comfortable with her feeding schedule and signs to watch for."
"Signs?" I ask.
"Breathing changes, color changes, feeding issues. We'll go over everything." She softens slightly. "I know this is overwhelming. But you're both doing great, and Brooklyn is healthy. She just came a little early."
"Seven weeks early," I say. "Because I stressed too much, or traveled too much, or?—"
"Stop." Dr. Martinez's tone is gentle but firm. "We've been over this. Premature birth happens. Sometimes there's a medical reason, sometimes there isn't. Brooklyn is healthy and thriving. That's what matters now."
Trace squeezes my hand. "Seven days is doable."
"Seven days is terrifying," I counter.
"That too."
Dr. Martinez smiles. "For what it's worth, every parent feels this way. Even the ones who planned everything perfectly. Babies don't come with instruction manuals."
"They really should," I mutter.
"Agreed. But you'll figure it out. And we'll be here if you need us." She hands us a packet of information. "Read through this tonight. It has feeding schedules, growth expectations, warning signs, and our after-hours number. Call anytime if you're worried."
We leave her office with the packet and matching expressions of terror.
"Seven days," I say numbly.
"Seven days," Trace echoes.
We walk back to the NICU in silence, both processing how fast this is happening. When we reach Brooklyn's incubator, she's sleeping peacefully, completely unaware that her parents are having matching panic attacks.
"We can do this," Trace says, though he sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"Can we?"
"We have to." He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist. "She's counting on us."
I lean into him, watching our daughter sleep. Seven days is too fast and not fast enough. I want her home with us. I want her here where nurses monitor her every breath.
I want to know what the hell I'm doing.
"What if we break her?" I whisper.
"We won't."
"What if we forget to feed her?"
"She'll remind us. That's what crying is for."
"What if?—"
He turns me to face him, his hands on my shoulders. "Patrice. We're going to mess up. Probably a lot. We're going to panic and second-guess ourselves and Google things at three in the morning. But we're not going to break her. Because we love her too much to let anything happen to her."
