"He is."
We stay for twenty minutes before the nurses insist she return to her room. She's too weak, lost too much blood, needs rest and recovery.
Back in her room, she asks the question I've been dreading: "What happened? During surgery?"
"Placental abruption. Emergency C-section. You hemorrhaged. They had to—" I stop, unsure how to say it.
"They had to do what?"
"Hysterectomy. To stop the bleeding. To save your life."
She processes this silently for long moments. Then: "No more children."
"No more biological children," I clarify. "But adoption—surrogacy—there are options if we want more someday."
"But not pregnancy. Not carrying another baby."
"No. Not pregnancy."
She's quiet. Processing. Then: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'm alive. Nikolai is alive. We both survived. No more children is—it's okay. We have him. That's enough."
"Are you sure?"
"No," she admits. "But right now, I'm just grateful we're both breathing. The rest—we'll deal with it when it comes."
The next seventy-two hours are hell.
Nikolai in the NICU, machines breathing for him, feeding him, monitoring every function. Brain bleeds, lung infections, apnea episodes—complications stack up, each one potentially fatal.
Sonya is recovering from major surgery, still weak, desperate to be with our son but unable to spend more than brief periods in NICU.
I split time between them—hours watching Nikolai fight, hours sitting with Sonya, both of us terrified of losing what we barely have.
Sunday afternoon, Nikolai has a seizure. They stabilize him, but brain damage is possible. We won't know the extent until he's bigger, older, developed enough to test.
Sonya cries when I tell her. "Did we do this? Pushing too hard with the foundation, with everything—did we cause this?"
"No. Placental abruption is random. Nothing you did caused it."
"But if I'd rested more, if I'd—"
"No. You did everything right. This just—happened."
Monday morning, infection sets in. They treat aggressively with antibiotics, but his tiny body is struggling.
By Monday evening, Dr. Volkov pulls me aside. "The next twenty-four hours are critical. If he survives tonight, his odds improve significantly. But right now—prepare yourself."
I’m not prepared. Can't prepare. Just sit in the NICU, hand through the incubator port touching my son, willing him to fight.
"Stay alive," I whisper. "Please. Your mama needs you. I need you. We've fought so hard to have you. Don't leave us now."
Midnight Monday, his vitals stabilize. Tuesday morning, the infection starts responding to antibiotics. By Tuesday afternoon, seventy-two hours after birth, he's still alive.
The NICU team is cautiously optimistic. "He's beating the odds. Still critical, still a long road ahead. But he's fighting."
