“The uhh . . .” I start, although in the rush to get her prepped for the emergency C-section, I didn’t follow much of what they said. Everything was bad, and there were a lot of people in that room. People who weren’t there to deliver a baby, because there were other critical issues to be dealt with. Now that the baby’s here, in my arms, healthy and calm and so incredibly handsome I want to stare at him forever, it dawns on me that everything that just happened wasn’t normal. That’s not how things go down, I don’t even think when it’s an emergency. The mom is supposed to be conscious during a C-section, right?
The doctor smiles sympathetically. She deals with people who are overwhelmed all the time, I imagine. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. She did crash but only for a couple seconds. She should be okay. And the oncologist took a look at her ovary while she was open, got some samples, but he thinks she’s good for now. She’s going to have a rough recovery in front of her — we didn’t have a choice with the incision because of the scar tissue, so it wasn’t as clean as we usually do for a c-section — but we’ll get her back on her feet.”
I let the words float around for a moment, not wanting to react in a way that might upset the baby. I hate Tilly, but when the doctor said she crashed, does that mean her heart stopped? Did she actually die while she was in surgery? And an oncologist was in there? I know she’s got a lot of scarring on her belly. I remember that from our night together in July, when she lied to me about being able to get pregnant. But hell, was it cancer?
“I think I need to sit down,” I mutter, the words feeling foreign on my tongue, like they were spoken by someone else who just happens to be controlling my tongue.
“Do you think you can walk a little bit with me, or do you need to sit down first?” the doctor asks without a trace of the ridicule I’d expect from my friends if I’d just said something like that to them. Then again, I’m betting as a doctor, she sees people fall constantly. And I’m holding a baby.
My baby.
Damn.
His mother is a monster. A wolf in sexy, sweet, innocent sheep’s clothing. I want to believe that she’ll treat him well, but how can I know that?
I have to take care of him. No matter what happens, I have to protect him. I have to make sure he’s strong and healthy and safe andloved.
Which means I can’t be weak right now. I can’t let myself get fucked up about whatever just happened in there with Tilly. I have a baby I’m responsible for now.
“Yeah, I’ll walk,” I say firmly. “He’ll like the walk.” Babies love walks. I may not know much about babies, and I’m about to go through one hell of a crash course right as practice is about to begin, so this is going to be rough to handle, but hey, I walk a lot at practice. I bet I could just strap him into one of those wolf-pack baby carriers and take him with me.
He’s my kid. He probably loves football, too.
The doctor seems to relax at that, like she was waiting for me to freak out or, hell, like Iwasfreaking out but I’m calmer now. “They do love walks. You’ll definitely get your steps in, not that you need to worry about that.” She winks.
Right. She knows who I am. My hood fell back at some point, and Tilly saidBlaiseenough times.
“Hey, that, err, hippo thing? Where you can’t talk about patient stuff?”
“HIPAA? We can’t control patients, but you don’t have to worry about this leaking to the press from anyone in that operating room. Your identity is safe with me.”
“Good. It’s . . . the team doesn’t know. It’s complicated.”
“We don’t want to make things any more complicated, then. We’re going to transfer Tilly to a maternity room once she’s stable to move, but in the meantime, would you like to take your son there and give him his first bottle? It’s going to be a few hours before Tilly’s able to feed him, and we don’t want him going hungry beforethen.”
Chapter 12
Tilly
Every time I’ve been given general sedation — too many times because I’ve done a lot of dumb stuff and then the cancer — I wake with this feeling of dread. I don’t know if it’s from the sedatives or if my body just doesn’t understand that I’m already on the other side. It could be something everyone experiences and no one ever talks about it. I’ve been in a lot of survivors’ groups, and I always leave because I can’t take the weight of the conversations with them. I can’t handle admitting that I’ve had the same thoughts as the other survivors. I don’t want to know other people wake up thinking they died and the brain just didn’t get it.
I feel that now, although mixed in with that and the feeling like my brain doesn’t fit my skull and my body doesn’t fit, well,my body, I also feel this profound loss.
My pregnancy is over. I survived it. There was always a risk that I wouldn’t, a higher risk than most people have. I did plan for that in my own way. I asked Joss if she’d take care of my baby if anything happened to me, and she said, “Of course.”
She said it in a way that made it clear she didn’t think it was an actual concern, though. She thought I was being silly or paranoid. Just covering bases. Being responsible for once in my life, I don’t know.
But I lived. My baby did too. The doctors were all clear that he was never at risk. It was my fever and blood pressure that had the nurses scared, and then the fact that I’ve already had so much surgery in that area put them on high alert. So I’m sure he’s near me somewhere, but he’s nothere. It’s an absence unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, not even when my mother left or when my dad stopped recognizing me.
I wasn’t here to greet my son. I had that same vision that every expectant mom has of the baby being born and then patted dry and handed over. The skin-to-skin. The critical bonding time. Yet again, I ruined everything. I’m all he has. He needs to know I’m here for him.
I can’t move. I know this. I don’t even try. But I’ve been here before; I know a good place to start is just clenching and relaxing my fists. I don’t have a breathing tube this time, so I move my jaw, small motions that don’t actually open my mouth, just unlock it so I can swallow.
It feels like sandpaper.
I feel like the worst mom in the world over the fact that it’s the need for water and not the need to see my child that has me opening my eyes, but I need it. I need to see where I am, I need to understand what’s happened. I need to get my bearings and get my body under control for my son.
The room is dim, a huge relief. It’s quiet, and there’s a faint glow from the windows, like it’s nighttime but the shades are open. I’m just struggling to focus.
