"You can. Push!"
Emma pushes with everything she has. Chase is crying, whispering encouragement that gets lost in Emma's screams. Jackson's gripping the windowsill, his knuckles white.
And then there's a cry. It's weak, but a cry nonetheless.
"It's a girl," the doctor announces.
She's so tiny, so impossibly tiny. Her skin has that translucent quality preemies have—pink with patches of white and yellow, so delicate you can see the veins beneath. Her limbs flail, and her cry sounds more like mewling. The NICU team moves in immediately.
"Let me see her," Emma gasps. "Let me..."
They hold the baby up for half a second, just long enough forEmma to see her daughter before they whisk her away to the warming table in the corner.
I move closer, watching them work. Years of training kick in, and I'm reading their movements, understanding what they're doing before they do it.
"Respiratory distress," one of the neonatologists says. "Suction. Get me the CPAP ready."
They're suctioning her airways. The baby's crying stops. That's bad, that's very bad.
"What's happening?" Emma's trying to sit up. "Why isn't she crying? Why..."
"She's having trouble breathing," I say, keeping my voice calm. "Her lungs aren't fully developed yet; they're helping her."
"Is she..."
"She's going to be fine. Look, they're putting her on respiratory support, that's normal."
The NICU team works quickly. CPAP mask over her tiny face, IV line in her umbilical stump, monitors attached to her chest and feet.
"Stats are stabilizing," someone says. "Oxygen sats are coming up. Sixty-five. Seventy. Seventy-five."
"What does that mean?" Chase asks, his voice shaking.
"It means she's responding to treatment, her oxygen levels are improving." I move back to Emma's side. "She's fighting, Em. She's strong."
The neonatologist approaches. "We need to transport her to the NICU. She's stable but needs intensive monitoring: respiratory support, temperature regulation, and feeding support. Standard for thirty-two weeks."
"Can I hold her?" Emma's crying.
"Not yet. I'm sorry. She needs to be in the isolette immediately. But you can see her before we take her up."
They wheel the isolette over. Inside is the tiniest human I'veever seen, four pounds at most, skin almost translucent, eyes fused shut, breathing mask covering half her face.
But alive.
Emma touches the glass of the incubator, her palm pressed against it near her baby’s tiny hand.
"Hi, Sofia," Emma whispers. "I'm your mama. You're going to be okay, you're so strong."
Then they're taking her away. The NICU team moves fast, rolling the isolette toward the elevators. Emma's sobbing, Chase is holding her, and looking lost.
Jackson's just staring at where the baby disappeared, face pale.
I follow the NICU team. "I'm a pediatric nurse. Can I come up? Her mother's my best friend, I can help explain things to the family."
The neonatologist nods. "Fifth floor. Ask for Dr. Stone, he'll be handling her case."
I head back to the delivery room. They're cleaning Emma up, removing monitors, and helping her into a clean gown. She looks destroyed.
