"Do it," I say, because Sonya can't consent, is fading, losing too much blood.
The surgery continues until 12:45 AM. When they finally close, Sonya is alive but unconscious, blood transfusions running, monitors beeping steadily.
"She'll live," Dr. Volkov tells me in the hallway. "But the hysterectomy was necessary. No future pregnancies. This was her only biological child."
"I don't care," I say honestly. "She's alive. That's all that matters."
"The baby is in the NICU. Critical but stable for now. One pound eight ounces, twenty-five weeks. He's on a ventilator, and multiple monitors. The next seventy-two hours are crucial. If he survives that, his odds improve significantly. But—" He pauses. "Be prepared. Outcomes at twenty-five weeks are unpredictable."
Saturday, March 19th, 3:00 AM.
I'm in the NICU, staring at my son through an incubator.
Nikolai Stefan Petrov. We'd finally decided on the name last week. Now he exists—impossibly small, covered in wires and tubes, fighting for every breath.
One pound eight ounces. Smaller than a bag of sugar. Skin translucent, showing veins. Eyes fused shut. Fingers the size of matchsticks.
But alive. Breathing. Fighting.
"His vitals are holding steady," the NICU nurse says quietly, checking monitors. "That's good. Every hour he stays stable improves his chances."
"Can I touch him?"
"Wash your hands thoroughly first—sink over there, antibacterial soap. Then one finger. Very gently. Through the port."
I scrub my hands for two minutes, following her instructions exactly. Then return to the incubator.
I reach through the incubator port, touch his tiny hand with one finger. His fingers curl reflexively around mine—instinct, not recognition, but it destroys me anyway.
"Hello, Nikolai," I whisper. "This is your papa. You're so strong. So brave. Your mama fought for you. Now you fight too. Stay alive. Please stay alive."
At 6:00 AM, Sonya wakes in recovery.
First thing she asks: "The baby?"
"Alive. In NICU. Critical but stable."
"I want to see him."
"You can't move yet. Surgery was three hours ago, you lost massive blood, you need to—"
"I want to see my son."
Dr. Volkov allows it at 8:00 AM—wheelchair transport to NICU, brief visit, heavily monitored.
I push her wheelchair to the incubator. She stares at Nikolai with tears streaming down her face.
"He's so small."
"One pound eight ounces."
"Can I touch him?"
The nurse nods. Shows her the port, how to reach through carefully.
Sonya's finger touches his hand. He doesn't curl around hers—too deeply sedated, too fragile for reflexes. But she's touching him, connecting with the life we created.
"He's a fighter," she whispers. "Like us."
