My pulse pounds in my ears so loudly and painfully, I actually wince.
“And now?” I whisper, bracing myself.
“For now, both heartbeats are strong,” she replies. “But you are not stable in the way we would like.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“With your history of prior loss and now abdominal trauma, you are at increased risk for preterm labour, growth restriction, and further placental complications.”
I let go of Gabriel’s hand, my blood turning cold, and curl my fingers tightly into the hospital blanket.
“How high is the risk?” Gabriel asks.
“With twins, and your recent surgery,” she says, hesitating a moment, “there is approximately a forty percent chance of preterm complications before viability.”
The percentage echoes in my mind, and I feel a tremor begin in my body.
“Are you saying, there’s a chance she could lose the babies? Again?” Zale asks, voice tight.
“I’m saying we monitor her closely,” Doctor Ricci says gently. “Bed rest for now with limited movements, zero stress, and we’ll be doing frequent ultrasounds.”
I could laugh, because my entire life feels like stress. Anytime something starts to go right, something horribly bad comes along to destroy all my happiness.
“And if something goes wrong again?” I ask, forcing myself to look at her.
She holds my gaze without wavering. “Then we intervene again as quickly as we can.”
It’s not the reassuring answer that I’m looking for, and I have to look away, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
Gabriel leans closer to me. “They’re strong,” he says firmly. “They survived a car wreck.”
The doctor nods. “It truly is remarkable. I do not use the word miracle lightly.”
But I can’t let myself be as hopeful as they are. I’m basically being told not to move too much or breathe too hard or else I might lose these babies. My body is failing me when I need it to be strong the most.
“How long until they’re safe?” I ask.
“Twenty-four weeks gives us viability with intensive support,” she says. “Thirty-two weeks significantly improves outcomes. Thirty-six weeks is ideal.”
I do the math. “So, I’ll be here for the majority of my pregnancy?”
I’m only seventeen weeks according to her. That’s months of being here, holding my breath and waiting for something to gowrong. Gabriel must see the fear settling in because he reaches forward and takes my hand again.
“We’ll take it one day at a time,” he murmurs.
“Exactly. One day at a time.” Doctor Ricci nods approvingly. “We will perform another ultrasound in the morning to reassess blood flow and stability,” she says. “For now, rest. Your body needs recovery.”
She gives me one last reassuring smile before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind her. Both Gabriel and Zale remain silent as they watch me, but all I can do is stare at the ceiling as tears begin to stream out of my eyes.
“I can’t lose them,” I whisper.
Gabriel’s hand slides over mine, then slowly down to rest gently over my stomach.
“You won’t,” he says immediately.
“You don’t know that,” I breathe.
“I don’t,” he admits. “But I’ll do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t happen. You’re not doing it alone this time.”
