DEENA
I wentin for a routine appointment at thirty-four weeks, and while the nurse was taking my blood pressure, she straightened. It was a subtle movement, but it made me pause.
Something was wrong.
“Blood pressure is 150 over 80,” the nurse told me a moment before the rip of the Velcro sounded in the quiet room. She took the cuff off my arm and looked at me. “Have you been having any headaches lately?”
“This morning,” I said, “but I thought it was just because I haven’t had a strong coffee in months.”
“Swelling in your hands and face?”
I blinked at her. “I mean…I’m pregnant. I’m swollen all over all the time.”
“The doctor will come talk to you shortly. Just stay here, it won’t be long.”
“Is everything okay?”
“We’ll run a few more tests. Won’t be long,” she repeated.
I’d already peed on a stick at the beginning of my appointmentto check for proteins and blood in my urine, but they had me do another urine test and a blood test and took my blood pressure again.
Then the room filled with people.
The OB-GYN on duty was a no-nonsense woman with dark skin and deep brown eyes. She put her hand on my wrist to feel my pulse, looking at her watch as she did it. Old school. Then she looked me in the eyes and said, “You’re having a baby today.”
My vision went fuzzy at the edges. “What?”
“Is there someone you’d like to call? A support person? Someone who can bring you what you need for labor?”
“What do you mean? I’m only thirty-four weeks. The baby needs to cook for like, two more months!” My voice was thin and wobbly. I hardly recognized it, but they were my lips moving, so it must have come from me.
“You’re showing signs of severe, rapid onset pre-eclampsia. We need to get that baby out as soon as possible.”
My head was shaking halfway through her speech. “I don’t… I want to go into labor naturally. I want to wait. It’s too early.”
She softened slightly. “Pre-eclampsia is extremely dangerous for both you and your son,” she said. “There’s a risk of seizure, stroke, and severe organ damage. The only way to cure it is to get the baby out.”
I’d spent the past few months reading everything I could find about pregnancy and childbirth. I had a birth plan and a list of everything I wanted to bring to the hospital. I was organized and meticulous, the same way I was in business. I wanted to go into spontaneous labor, see how long I could make it on my own, get an epidural, and push the baby out. That was the plan. That was what was supposed to happen.
“We’ll get you on a drip with a medication that induces labor,” the doctor began to explain.
“But that’s supposed to be way more painful,” I protested.
She nodded. “Yes. Many women find Pitocin contractions much more intense than when they go into spontaneous labor.”
Panic tightened at the base of my spine, making it hard to move. It crawled up my back and wrapped around my ribs, constricting my lungs. I couldn’t get a full breath.
“Do you have a support person?” she repeated. With her eyes still on me, she held out a hand, and a nurse gave her my chart. Finally, her eyes dropped to the chart. “Your emergency contact is listed as Alba Enders? Would you like to call her?”
I had no one. Alba was on vacation with Vaughn and her son. Who else would I call? My mother? My brother?
Cal?
“No,” I said. “Tell me what is going to happen.”
The doctor gave me a rundown of the process, had me sign a bunch of forms, and then a nurse put a needle in the back of my hand and connected it to an IV. I watched it all happen in a daze, one hand resting on the bed, the other on my belly.
My mouth was dry. The world seemed dreamlike, as if I were imagining this whole thing.
