Chương 10
People introduced themselves while moving.
A nurse named Tasha.
A surgical technician named Miguel.
Dr. Chen again.
Another obstetrician assisting Dr. Patel.
Names piled up faster than I could keep them.
They moved me onto a narrow table.
My arms were positioned out to the sides.
A blue drape rose between my face and everything happening below my chest.
Dr. Chen tested the anesthesia.
“Can you feel this?”
“Pressure.”
“Sharp?”
“No.”
He tried another place.
“Here?”
“Pressure.”
“Good.”
The door opened.
Evan appeared wearing blue scrubs, a cap crooked over his hair, and a mask covering half his face.
He looked ridiculous.
I had never been happier to see anyone.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He sat beside my head.
“You look like a discount surgeon.”
“You look amazing.”
“I look horizontal.”
“You pull it off.”
Dr. Patel’s voice came from beyond the drape.
“We’re starting.”
My breathing changed.
Evan noticed.
“Look at me.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re okay.”
“I’m not okay.”
“You’re here.”
That was true.
The room filled with small practical sounds.
Metal.
Paper.
Suction.
Voices calling numbers.
I felt tugging.
Then pressure so strange and deep that my body tried to move away from itself.
“Is that normal?”
“Yes,” Dr. Chen said.
“Pressure is normal.”
“It feels like someone is sitting on me.”
“That’s within the family of normal.”
I turned my head toward Evan.
“Family of normal?”
He whispered, “Don’t make him revise his terminology right now.”
Another pull.
Another wave of pressure.
Then Dr. Patel said, “We’re almost there.”
Nobody spoke for the next few seconds.
Those seconds became the longest of my life.
Pressure.
Movement.
A sudden release inside my abdomen.
Then silence.
Not the ordinary silence of a room waiting.
The wrong kind.
I looked at Evan.
His eyes widened above the mask.
“Why isn’t she crying?”
No one answered immediately.
I heard quick voices beyond the drape.
“Come on.”
“Stimulate.”
“Heart rate?”
“Eighty.”
My whole body went cold.
“Why isn’t she crying?”
Evan stood halfway.
Dr. Chen touched his shoulder.
“Stay seated.”
“What’s happening?”
“The neonatal team has her.”
“Can I see her?”
“Give them a moment.”
A moment.
Everyone kept asking me to survive moments.
Then a sound came from across the room.
Thin.
High.
Angry.
A cry.
I stopped breathing.
Another cry followed.
Louder this time.
Evan made a broken sound beside me.
“That’s her.”
I started crying so hard I could barely see.
“That’s Lila?”
“That’s her.”
The neonatal team worked beneath a warmer somewhere behind my head.
I could not turn far enough to see.
“What’s happening?”
Evan tried to look.
“They’re checking her.”
“What does she look like?”
He laughed through tears.
“Wet.”
“Evan.”
“Tiny.”
His voice cracked.
“She’s really tiny.”
“How tiny?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she breathing?”
A nurse answered from across the room.
“She is breathing.”
I closed my eyes.
Something unclenched inside me.
Not completely.
Never completely.
But enough to breathe.
Dr. Howard appeared near my shoulder.
“Savannah.”
I turned toward him.
“Lila is breathing on her own, but she’s working harder than we’d like.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re giving her some respiratory support.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes.”
The nurse brought her close for only a few seconds.
Lila’s face was red and furious beneath a tiny knit cap.
A clear mask rested over her nose.
Her eyes were squeezed shut.
She had dark hair plastered against her forehead.
I reached toward her.
My hand shook so badly that the nurse guided my fingers.
I touched Lila’s cheek with one fingertip.
Her skin was impossibly soft.
“Hi.”
My voice broke.
“Hi, baby.”
She turned her head slightly toward my finger.
That movement destroyed me.
“I’m sorry.”
I did not know why I said it.
Maybe because mothers apologize for everything before they even understand what belongs to them.
The nurse stayed another second.
Then Dr. Howard said, “We need to take her upstairs.”
“Can Evan go?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
He looked torn.
“Go.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“Go with her.”
“But you—”
“Evan.”
He stopped.
“Go with our daughter.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I’ll come back.”
“Take pictures.”
“Not bad ones.”
He laughed.
“No promises.”
Then he disappeared with the neonatal team.
The room felt empty without him even though at least eight people remained.
Dr. Patel continued the surgery.
I stared at the ceiling.
The fear changed shape.
Lila existed outside me now.
That fact felt impossible.
She was somewhere in another hallway, breathing with help, while strangers measured things I could not see.
I wanted to get off the table.
I wanted to follow her.
My body, numb and open beneath the drape, had other plans.
Dr. Chen watched me.
“You doing okay?”
“No.”
“Any nausea?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Shivering?”
“Yes.”
He adjusted something in my IV.
The shaking eased slightly.
I asked, “How long until I can see her?”
“That depends on your recovery.”
“How long?”
“Usually a couple of hours before we’re comfortable moving you.”
A couple of hours sounded obscene.
“She’s my baby.”
“I know.”
“I should be with her.”
“I know.”
There was nothing else to say.
When the surgery ended, they moved me to recovery.
The room was quieter there.
Karen returned.
She tucked warm blankets around me and checked my bleeding and blood pressure.
My phone appeared on the bedside table.
“Your husband left this with us.”
“Any messages?”
She looked at the screen without touching it.
“A lot.”
“Turn it over.”
She did.
I watched the clock instead.
Every minute became personal.
At 8:17, I wondered whether Lila was crying.
At 8:19, I wondered whether she could feel loneliness.
At 8:22, I wondered whether babies knew when their mothers were missing.
At 8:25, I told myself to stop.
At 8:26, I failed.
Evan returned at 8:31.
He still wore the blue cap.
There was a crease across his cheek from the mask.
He walked toward me holding his phone.
“She’s okay.”
The words came before anything else.
May you like
My eyes filled.
“What does okay mean?”
