Against the Odds (Fighting to Survive #2)(29)
The nurse opens the door and the room fills with the sound of a baby’s heartbeat coming from the monitor that’s hooked up to Leah’s belly. I don’t have to see it to know what it is. This is déjà vu from a few weeks ago. I try to hide the fear from my face as I walk around the curtain to see Leah. I am relieved to see that she isn’t in any pain and that she is resting comfortably. It looks like she may even be sleeping.
The doctor is standing near the hospital bed speaking to another nurse that is in the room. I don’t acknowledge them as I make my way to be with Leah. I scan Leah from head to toe taking note of the oxygen tube in her nose, IV and fluids in her left hand, and the baby monitor connected to her belly. She also has a blood pressure cuff attached to her right arm. The hospital bed rails are up and Leah is covered to her waist with a white hospital blanket. I hold her fragile hand in mine as I bend down to kiss her.
“How is she?” Tim asks.
“She’s resting comfortably,” the doctor says. “She is in active labor and will be delivering sometime today. We gave her epidural and that is why she’s able to sleep.”
“What’s an epidural?” Sue asks.
“It’s a local anesthetic that will numb Leah from the waist down. We used it on her when she delivered her first child and she asked for it again with this child.” The doctor speaks clearly and slowly so that we all can process his words. “Leah has dilated to four centimeters so she is in active labor.”
“She’ll deliver today?” I ask.
He looks at his watch and says “It’s after midnight, so yes. Leah will deliver sometime today.”
“What about the baby? It’s too soon,” Sue cries.
“We have the N.I.C.U. on standby. I have personally spoken to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and they are preparing for the baby as we speak.”
“Oh, God,” Mom cries.
I hold onto the bed railing to keep from swaying. It is finally sinking in. Ready or not, this is it. “She’s almost 30 weeks,” I say.
“We know. We are giving her medication to help build the baby’s lung capacity. We are very optimistic the baby will be born healthy.”
“But at 30 weeks?” Tim asks.
“Even at 30 weeks. Leah has had excellent prenatal care and babies born a lot earlier have survived. It’s crucial to stay optimistic for Leah’s sake. This won’t be easy for her.”
“We understand,” they say in unison.
I look down at Leah when she squeezes my hand. I smile when our eyes meet. “You’re here,” she says.
“I am. So we’re going to have a baby, huh?” I bend down and kiss her. I want to sound happy, although worried is a better word.
“We are. I’m sorry. I did everything I could…”
Sue interrupts and says, “Leah, this isn’t your fault. She has other plans.”
“That’s right, Leah,” Dr. Fouch interjects. “This isn’t your fault.”
“But I…,” Leah begins to say.
I stroke Leah’s cheeks and wipe away her tears and says, “Shh, you did nothing to cause this.”
Leah
I close my eyes and cry. I feel responsible for this. I feel like I failed Robert and this baby. I try to be strong, but I can’t. It’s exhausting to pretend all is right in the world, when it’s not. The black cloud is hovering, oh so close. I feel like if I reached out for it, I could touch it.
Mom, Dad, Margie, and Walter are all here. They try to be strong, but they have F.E.A.R. written all over their faces. Losing Jamie was bad enough, but to lose her sister, too, I won’t survive that. I already know it’ll be too much for me. I barely survived Jamie’s death and Robert was in worse shape than I was.
The doctor sounds hopeful, but it isn’t his daughter he’s talking about. I’m thankful the medication makes me sleepy. I don’t think I could pretend happiness today. If I’m not sleeping, I’m praying, or I pretend to nap. I can hear the conversations around me and everyone is concerned for this baby.
The doctor wakes me so he can check my cervix. When I first got here, he removed the stitch that he inserted to close my cervix almost three weeks ago. I’m glad that it worked for three weeks. Every day the baby remains inside me the better it is for her. The steroids they are giving me is to help with the baby’s lung development. I hope they work quickly.
“Well, Leah, you are now dilated about six and a half centimeters.” The doctor says as he stands to remove his gloves and wash his hands. “It shouldn’t be long before you welcome your daughter into the world.” Don’t say that. I want her to stay inside me as long as she can. “Do you have a name for your daughter?”
I shake my head and Robert says, “No, she doesn’t have a name, yet. We need to come up with one for her.” Robert is sitting at the head of the bed and is holding my hand. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. I’m afraid to name her. I’m afraid for her to be born so early. I’m scared of losing her. My lips tremble and I still pretend to sleep. I feel the tears slide down my cheek towards my ears. I move me head slightly to wipe them off on the pillow before Robert sees them.
“Would you all mind going to the cafeteria for a food run?” Robert asks. “I’m starving.”