Chapter 2 - THE DELIVERY ROOM
The ambulance ride was a blur of flashing red lights, agonizing pain, and Julian holding my hand so tightly I thought my fingers would break. At eight months, the baby was dangerously close to term, but the blunt force trauma to my abdomen had caused a placental abruption.
When we crashed through the ER doors, the trauma team took over.
"Fetal heart rate is dropping! We need an emergency C-section, now!" the attending physician shouted.
They tore my thrift-store maternity dress away, prepping me for surgery. Julian was forced to stay outside the sterile field, watching through the glass window, his uniform stained with my blood. The anesthesia hit my veins like ice water, but right before the darkness pulled me under, I heard the faint, terrifyingly weak cry of a newborn.
I woke up hours later in the Intensive Care Unit. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the dim room. Julian was asleep in a chair beside me, his hand resting on my bandaged head.
"Julian?" I croaked, my throat burning.
He shot up instantly, tears pooling in his exhausted eyes. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, careful to avoid the seven stitches.
"The baby?" I sobbed, panic seizing my chest.
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"She's alive, Clara," he wept, pressing his forehead against mine. "She's in the NICU. She's small, and she needs a breathing tube for a few days, but she's a fighter. Just like you."
I closed my eyes, letting the tears of absolute relief stream down my face. We had a daughter. And she was safe.
